


i talk out loud like you're still around

by vaultingus



Category: One Direction
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Chicago - Freeform, M/M, Nouis, lourry, relationship, romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:02:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaultingus/pseuds/vaultingus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>photographer!louis / model!harry</p><p>chicago, u.s.</p><p>louis sighs into empty air and takes pictures for indie labels and promises himself he’ll be better this time. harry still has pink lips but they used to smile so much more and he does his best work when he’s in a war with the camera. it’s hard to be found when you don’t think you’re lost.</p><p>*side note: playlists for this fic, imagery and additional content is on my tumblr: radicalfaced.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

louis sighs loudly as he sips a lukewarm mouthful of weak tea. this whole organic tea phase sweeping the city makes it really fucking difficult to tell when he is going to get a decent cup and when he will be served some watery, hipster-pleasing excuse for his favorite drink. 

he sets down the earthenware mug and picks up a pile of glossy photographs from the antique coffee table in front of him. another sigh escapes his lips as his vision blurs over the nearly identical images.

another pretty boy stares up at him; another model with mile-long eyelashes and a crisp jawline and ambitions to be the best in the world at staring down the judgmental lens of the camera.

louis flips the top photo over to look at the name: zayn malik. louis remembers him by his golden eyes and his penchant for chain smoking indoors. he was one of the few that louis had genuinely enjoyed chatting with as he adjusted the settings on his camera.

he rolls his neck a few times to relieve the aching tension and idly wonders when photography lost the electrifying feel of capturing people’s souls in flashes of light. now, he only counts in faces.

he is good at his job because he can get the plastic models to mold themselves into exactly what he tells them to be.

"darling, you’re going to have to tilt your chin up for me _,"_  he’d coax out of a shy female model.

"pretend you want to fuck me _,"_  he had purred to a lifeless brazilian male model just last week. after a beat of shocked silence, the model had locked his chocolate eyes on louis’ bright ones and the rest was history. the resulting photos had turned out strikingly. unfortunately, the bedroom eyes had been far superior to the sex and yet another morning had ended in a carefully crafted exit set against the moody sunrise peeking over the horizon.

these walks of shame, as his friends called them, always feel especially raw and jagged in louis’ lungs. forced to sort out his thoughts and stagger home in a residual chemical haze on sore legs, he makes empty promises to the cool air about changing. he’d be  _good_  from here on out. he can handle that, can’t he?

he flips past the brazilian model’s headshot with an almost imperceptible twitch and continues through: a blonde boy with a mysterious smirk, a redhead with constellations of freckles, a brunette with an artful faux hawk. the list stretches on and on.

he will be meeting all these hopefuls later with the fashion designer of the new campaign he had somehow landed (some rags-to-riches indie designer who makes leather-substitute garments out of recycled materials, how  _avant garde_  he remembers thinking with an eye roll) and he has a headache at the very thought of choosing. for being so fresh out of college, louis knows he was fortunate to land the shoot. his favorite projects are the small clothing labels anyway, and he likes working with models who aren’t well known. he has worked with and fucked enough of them to know just how caught up in themselves they can be, and he figures he is pretty caught up in himself anyway.  
  
_____

 louis leans over the sink and gazes into the spotty mirror. he looks exactly as weary as he feels. he tries to remember the last time he has slept during the night and can’t, but he supposes it is mostly his fault.  
  
  
the window of a few hours when the rest of the world sleeps soundly and he seems like the only human in existence is when his cells feel alive. sometimes he feels a deep 3 a.m. restlessness in his bones and he will slip out the creaky frame, climb two stories down the winding fire escape and journey around the city.

he doesn’t live in an exciting area of chicago (some months he can barely make rent on his modest apartment much less be choosy about his neighborhood), but he thinks even ordinary buildings looked like they contain wonderful mysteries at night, and sometimes he even glimpses the silhouette of a fellow insomniac through a lighted window. in those fleeting moments, he feels like they, of all people, must understand him. it’s like being in a very unfortunate club; he half-wishes he could quit, but he gathers nighttime moments like currency and he feels he would be quite poor without it all.

he has not wandered like this in a few weeks, but he hasn’t slept either. last night after an all-day shoot he wrapped himself up in an old brown thrift store blanket that felt as familiar as a second skin and opened a bottle of expensive french wine that someone had given him for his college graduation. with his old record player spinning the smiths’  _hatful of hollow_ , he drank until the bottle transitioned from burgundy to clear and he allowed himself a sleepy, self-indulgent pout session about missing home and feeling a general bout of existential boredom.

_jesus, wake up. you’re at work,_ he mentally hisses at his haggard face as he pulls himself from his disjointed thoughts of the city at night back into the daylight of the present.

_god i look like i haven’t taken care of my skin in a decade,_ he laments, remembering a time when his looks had been overly important to him and he had poured himself into constructing perfection.

he splashes an icy wave of water from the rusty tap across his face and wrinkles his pert nose in distaste as the faint flavor of the minerals in the water assault the tip of his tongue. he had forgotten to close his mouth.

_well i’m awake now,_ he thinks bitterly as he tries to swallow away the iron taste to no avail. he expects nothing less from the studio by now, which prides itself on maintaining a vintage (read: ancient) feel. the windows’ paint only allows them to be opened about three inches, the lamps constantly flicker and apparently the water tastes like the beginning of the nineteenth century.

his face still holds its consternation as he exits the bathroom and jerks to a stop upon noticing the models milling around the room, unpacking their bags or chatting forcedly with each other (from the day Louis had seen one model cut off a chunk of another’s hair he had assumed all of them were frenemies at best).

the tiny designer trots over and introduces herself as lavender and fills him in on what she wants to find today (the model who can make her leather seem  _effortless_ but can show its immense  _depth_ ) and louis wants to laugh at how many times he has heard these words overused in the industry. he assures her that he has a strong vision for the project and she claps her hands together in delight, her many eclectic rings clinking together. louis decides he likes when she smiles.

the models drift into a messy line and louis runs his eyes sharply over their faces, their collarbones, their hands. the brazilian stands on the far left, and louis dismisses him immediately. his look is far too classic for this sort of campaign, but louis still feels guilty for it, like he owes him something for leaving abruptly last week without following up. he mentally pledges to stop mixing business and pleasure.

he is constantly falling in love with individual features on models, but rarely with the entirety. anyone he chooses to photograph has to possess an  _essence_  that goes above their skeleton and their skin and their smile.

his friends tease him about this endlessly, mainly by nudging his ribs every time they pass an attractive boy their age and whispering something along the lines of, "hey tommo, you want to get to know his essence? _"_

when louis told his best friend niall about the disaster that was the brazilian model, niall had immediately snorted and asked louis to rate his essence on a scale of one to ten.  
  
"fucking hilarious, niall. no really,"louis had scoffed, but he knew it didn’t end there. it never did when it came to niall.

"what about his aura, lou? did you feel that too?"  
  
louis had cracked a smile at this. he knows he is picky to a fault when it comes to others, and he knows he sounds off his rocker when he explains the massive importance of people’s intangible essence in figuring out whether they are worth it.

"mate, you’re gonna be single forever if you keep up with that kind of talk," niall had goaded, though much gentler than before.

louis tried to choose his next words carefully.  
  
"i would rather be single forever than spend my time with someone who will never really know me."  
  
he really would. as much as he feels the emptiness of his bed at night or the space between his fingers, he’s searching for authenticity.

"i know, lou. i was kidding. besides, you’ll always have me."

"well aren’t you sweet today," louis said, only half-jokingly. he hates when niall is dead right about him, but niall also has a tendency to understand louis’ life better than he probably ever will.

he reaches the end of the line and sees the familiar inky tattoos of zayn malik. he tries not to smile at him as he absorbs his razor sharp jawline and almond eyes. he can easily envision zayn’s thin body clad in well-worn leather, skulking on some street corner with a cigarette and a chip on his shoulder.

"thanks, guys. give us a few minutes, yeah?"louis says finally.

he leads lavender over to the antique red velvet sofa and sits down, gesturing for her to do the same.

lavender opens her coral-colored lips and blurts "it’s zayn!"before louis can even get a word in, and he’s relieved. he wants to see zayn ducking low against evening light with his collar pulled up for warmth looking burned out around the edges and inflammatory at the core.  
  
he nods and she squeals and pulls him into a quick, perfume-scented hug. the sweet strains of coach poppy tickle his nose and he decides he will like working with lavender very much.  
  
louis stays on the couch after she leaves, envisioning the shoot. when he catches zayn’s eye, he motions and the model walks over to him quickly. louis can see the glint of nerves in his eyes, and he reaches up to pat him on the back.

"no worries, you’ve got the gig."

zayn exhales a pent up breath.

"no shit, that’s great."

a bang from the entryway pulls both of their heads in its direction. the door is a huge oak creation with lion knockers that makes an earth-shattering crack when it isn’t closed softly. only new models are unfamiliar with it; they usually learn after the first few startling times.

louis turns back to zayn but sees his eyes are turned upwards, carefully tracking someone moving across the room. louis doesn’t feel like turning around to see, and only makes the effort when he hears a gravelly voice behind him.  
  
"excuse me, did i miss the casting?"the voice asks, drawing the words out sweetly into more space than really necessary. louis thinks it sounds like when he drizzles molasses into his tea.

the boy is much taller than louis imagined, and when he first turns, still perched on the sofa, his eyes settle somewhere around the boy’s navel. he slides his eyes up and sees part of a fair face obscured by a halo of curls.  
  
zayn gives him a discreet nod and slips away quietly, leaving louis and the newcomer.  
  
louis stands.  
  
his eyes rest naturally on the pinkness of the boy’s mouth. he’s saying something but louis only looks at how his lips move together, how one side of the top lip rises slightly higher than the other when he begins his words. he catches himself staring.  
  
"pardon?"  
  
"i said my agency let me know about this thing late and i figured i would try to make it anyway."  
  
louis nods slowly. "oh, yeah. sorry."

"so it is over?"  
  
louis wishes in that moment that it wasn’t over, that he didn’t have to say it out loud.

he just nods. somehow he thinks his voice would sound weak in front of this boy.

the stranger ducks his head a few inches. louis has the strangest urge to reach out for him. the boy looks serious; his glassy green eyes flicker upwards through his eyelashes and meet louis’ and louis wonders how many times in his life he has seen this brilliant color without noticing it.

"sorry," louis offers, cursing himself for the disjointedness of the conversation. it’s like a connect-the-dots where he missed one dot in the beginning and the whole drawing is a bit off. he needs an eraser.

the boy opens his heavenly lips (louis is allowed to think things like this about strangers because he is a photographer, not a creep) and lets out a soft laugh.

"what are you sorry for? i’m the one who is an hour late."

louis nods again, willing himself to remember any english word at all.

if he has to admit it (which he never will to anyone, especially niall), this boy has an  _essence_ that makes louis think about each small movement and word a second too long, until the opportunity for it has passed.  
  
something about this boy’s eyes make him look at himself too closely.

the boy blinks slowly.

"i’m harry. harry styles?" _  
_

it comes out like a question, like he’s asking louis if it is okay to be standing in front of him.

"i’m louis tomlinson."

the boy holds out his hand and louis takes it, reveling in the warmth while tracing the map of prominent forearm veins upward to the elbow, where they disappear under tattoos.

louis has no idea why he opens his mouth and says, "you might have gotten it, you know."

the boy’s lips spread into a slight smile but louis is sure he sees a quiver from the lower one, and he feels tendrils of guilt lick up the sides of his stomach.

"i should go, then."

the last thing louis wants is the honey-voiced boy to leave, but there is nothing left here for him.

he hitches up his brown leather satchel and pulls on the sleeves of his dark peacoat, obscuring the few tattoos louis had scouted earlier. louis wonders if there are any more. the thought drives him crazy.  
  
"it was nice meeting you, louis tomlinson."

at the sound of his full name tumbling lusciously from harry’s mouth, he glances up and his cerulean eyes soak up more than his face. he tries to memorize his essence.

harry is walking away, his boots scuffing quietly on the wooden floor of the studio and louis’ mouth is opening and he’s calling out.

"and harry? maybe next time."  
  
he surprises himself with how much he wants there to be a next time. the boy with the green cat eyes has one aura he would not mind exploring at all.


	2. Chapter 2

niall’s limbs clamber over the edge of the windowsill shortly before his voice shoots through the opening, straight into louis’ sleep-addled brain.  
  
"rise and shine, princess! big day!"niall bounds over to the edge of louis’ bed and takes away both of the pillows so he can’t attempt to hide beneath the feathers.

"isn’t it a little early for you to be trespassing?"louis grumbles.

niall is sunshine, interrupting louis basking in the last dregs of the hazy darkness peacefully before conceding that the day must begin, no matter how strong the impulse to curl his knees to his chest and remain still may be. 

"it’s nearly seven, mate!" niall crows and throws his arm out carelessly. it collides with louis’ shoulder and he shrinks away. he isn’t ready for today; he isn’t ready for this week. his bed is too accepting of his sharp edges and his heavy sighs. the little nest of clothes, photos and empty bowls around the edge of it causes niall’s eyebrow to rise.

"is the film crew for hoarders expected here today?" niall asks, feigning a pointed look around louis’ disaster zone of an apartment. he had spent his free days since his last shoot mostly collapsing in on himself and running his fingers along the frayed edges of his blankets, refusing to expend the effort to reach for his long-dead cell phone to see if anyone at all had bothered to call. niall had, nine times, and louis knows he can’t really blame his friend for scaling the fire escape and tumbling in the window with his sheer force.

"piss off," louis rasps out, receiving a fond cheek pat from the blonde boy.

"now now buttercup, it’s time to get up for our big day."

niall probably thinks louis had been asleep until the moment he jumped through the window when louis had really been laying wide-eyed, following the splayed cracks of the ceiling with his eyes, stuck in the limbo of insomnia, drifting between images of wide green orbs and grey city streets sprawling out ahead of him.

he tries to fade back into his sweet thoughts somewhere above reality but it is too difficult with niall thrashing around in his closet, throwing together a dressy outfit and firing questions that hang in the air. 

louis can’t quite grasp the present, even as he sees it laid out in front of him. he feels dreamy, he lets himself enjoy a few more flimsy moments of peace before he accepts that yes, he did agree to attend some industry party with niall later and no, he probably will not run into harry styles on the street and bravely ask him to grab coffee or lunch or a walk around the edge of lake michigan or an inappropriate mid-afternoon martini. the folds of his brain do very well to dwell in when the world outside of the confines of his bed is too mundane to even fathom, but niall is the bridge from one place to the other so he sighs and heaves himself up. he imagines the atmosphere rippling as he steps from dreamland into the real world. the floorboards groan; so does he. 

niall prattles on about the party and how his boss will be watching him to see how he handles the event for a possible promotion to head of public relations for his small entertainment firm, and louis nods along at the right times and absorbs himself in studying his toast.

the party is at eight, the dress is formal and, as if louis needed any more incentive besides being absolutely forced and guilt-tripped, niall throws out that there should be some "grade A man meat"circulating around the party, since it will mostly host models, actors, musicians and suits.

"oh good, i like my men like i like my hamburgers," louis quips and niall swats him from across the table.

"tommo, get your panties out of a bunch and stop moping about. this party will be fun. it’s a party. did i mention open bar?"

louis perks up at this, and suddenly the visions of a strong whiskey sour in his hand make him infinitely less annoyed.

"now you’re speaking my language."

niall can sense that he’s won, so naturally he drops the annoying gusto and becomes a human again. 

"i am worried about you, though."

louis chooses not to answer this, his silence filling the gap between them like gelatin, solidifying the moment in a mold he would rather forget. their usual ease, the sun and the moon in symmetrical transience, has been fading lately and they both feel it deeply. louis has been revolving slower, and niall has been waiting for him to right himself.

  
 _come on, lou. catch up_ ,  _you’re almost there_.  


he is still inches away from niall’s glow. for today, he allows himself to drift awash in the golden yellow, melting deliciously into niall’s plans and dreams. oh, he needs this, he needs this so fucking badly. he listens to niall babble and he feels the soft lilt of his best friend’s voice pulling him forward.

 _i am this now_.  
  
 _i will go here now_.

_yes, this will do just fine._  


______

louis did not grumble when niall essentially dressed him like he was a lost elementary-school child and he did not say a word when niall called a town car to bring them to the michigan avenue address and he certainly did not start complaining when drinks were foisted into his idle hands the second he stepped one leather boot into the foyer of the host apartment.

niall smiles at him, his teeth glowing dangerously under the party lights and they both duck their heads to sip the fluorescent liquid contained within their baccarat crystal glasses. louis wonders if he can fit one or two of these in his pocket on the way out. although he generally turns his nose up at the whole snooty downtown scene, he does have a soft spot for nice things and the twinkling glasses are calling his name. 

yes, by all means, he has become someone who enters a party and quickly contemplates the best way to heist some kitchenware.

 _get your shit together,_ his brain hisses and his tongue gratefully accepts the remnants of drink in his cup. the ice slams against his teeth as he drains the first and second glasses and sets them on a discarded tray.

he feels niall’s warm palm on his elbow and they enter the main room, which is packed full of pulsing bass and trim bodies swaying to the gritty sounds of the kinks.  
  
it looks like a rave for hip twenty-somethings, and he feels the alcohol meet the beat somewhere in his veins and suddenly he wants to lose himself in the endlessness of a mass of euphoric dancers reaching around each other and moving up and down as if tonight is the last time they will get to flex their muscles and use their mouths for something pure.  
  
and oh, it could be so good. he remembers college: the fuzziest nights, every time he would try a new upper, a new downer, a new powder or liquid or pill. he remembers breaking pretty girls’ hearts at the edges of the dance floor and discovering prettier boys on his knees and his back, and he remembers the first time someone’s cherry lips had started to look and taste like blood. 

he loves people who come alive under lights, who allow the glitter to trick them and lead them to believe things do get better, that life can really be so deliciously charming. he likes people too fiercely when their pupils swallow the color of their eyes and their demons hide inside, waiting to claw their way out as they stumble home on broken ankles and twisted muscles. they will feel everything crumble once they are left alone, but louis likes how they give themselves over to him on nights like these and how he forgets who he is, too, and simply tilts his head back and lets the electricity flow through every inch of him.

the music has switched now to the strokes and he seeks out the bar, tapping his knuckles brazenly on the edge and taking whatever elixir the bartender hands him. two more cups of harsh vodka tempt him until they numb his throat on the way down. did the man even bother to mix anything into them or is he guzzling straight shots? either way, the buzz creeps into his arms and legs. 

he notices niall’s downy head bobbing around the edge of the dance floor, leading some men clad in pinstripe suits and louis feels genuine elation for him, for his career and his life. niall is happy and that makes louis happy, however removed from himself the feeling is. he loves niall more than his heart can possibly bear. he promises to tell niall this soon. he has so much to tell his friend.

he feels light now, and finds his sleeves have been rolled up the elbow and his tie has been loosened considerably. his hips twitch in longing to roll to the beat of the wombats’ song blasting raucously over the dance floor. people are jumping and twirling, buttons and clasps are drifting apart and shoulder bones are straining against taut skin as hundreds of beautiful people swirl together in a mass of chaos.  


 _i live for this,_ louis deliriously thinks to himself, moving his lips lightly in time with the words humming throughout his mind. he knows all the lyrics to this song, he has danced to it a hundred times and now he will do it again, but harder and faster and he just wants to lose the very last tendrils of himself so fucking badly.

the wombats croon and louis viscerally tastes their lyrics tonight—

_we feel nothing so jump into the fog…_

—his vision is sprinkled with tiny pieces of mirrors but he smiles because he can’t see himself in any of them—

_you know that we hit the ground upright…_

—oh and finally he feels someone tangle up with him and he meets the eyes of zayn malik. he laughs and laughs because as far as the industry goes, zayn is pretty much the only one he trusts and his cheekbones could cut louis’ heart open tonight.

even with the firm grip of zayn’s fingers on his hips and zayn’s smirking mouth and eyes full of gold dust, louis feels like he is looking at a sculpture in a museum. he is glad to feel only this. he will never cross the line with zayn and he’s grateful to feel this model against him even if a bit of zayn’s hair gel smears on his cheek and zayn is already coming apart at the seams.

it’s from ecstasy by the looks of it, apparent in the way zayn insistently touches anything within reach, absorbing the textures and the smells and the little fragments of an entire lifestyle that he hasn’t realized is dangerous yet. or maybe he has and simply doesn’t care. he grasps the sides of louis’ face and laughs endlessly and louis thinks he looks mad and funny and silent against the backdrop of the bass.

they break apart and louis snags one more drink from a circulating waitress, knocking it back with very little finesse and barely cringing as the whiskey hits his stomach too suddenly. the night has begun to speed up, everything is a little too surprising but he can’t stop now. 

the song switches to franz ferdinand and louis wanders further into the cluster of bodies with new vigor, finding solace in the arms of a beautiful boy with freckles like grains of sand.

"it’s like the beach,"louis giggles and when the boy asks him what he said, louis just shakes his head and swallows his words as a wall of sound closes them in each other’s space. 

 _it seems this boy bathed in ridicule…_

they move in perfect time, their hips grazing and louis knows exactly where he is headed.

 _too forward, way too physical_ … 

the boy has a lip ring. louis wonders if it hurts. he has never kissed one before but he isn’t sure if he would like it very much. 

 _it’s time that I had another_ …

louis wants another drink, or a bump of something. he doesn’t want to settle for the first adorned figure he meets on the dance floor, he wants to explore and find out the secrets of tonight before it sneaks away from him in favor of a helplessly plain sunrise. 

 _i’m always wanting more, if there’s another one_ … 

the song ends and louis allows the boy to kiss him on the cheek and tries to ignore the slick sweat sliding down the back of his neck.

but oh, now it’s the fratellis and he doesn’t care if he burns up in the pursuit of the magical feeling of not giving a fuck, he has to chase it.

another drink, another dance partner. another song, another step towards not remembering tonight. 

everyone is so goddamn beautiful to cover up how broken everything is, and louis wonders if these people ever cry or if they are just empty a lot, if their pouts cover the hum of not holding anything real inside. 

pouting makes him think of a pair of pink lips that have not been rivaled tonight, and he absolutely buzzes as his thoughts finally run free, straight towards harry styles.

every model in the building can’t knock the vision of harry’s feather-light lashes and agonizing marble green eyes from louis’ head and he looks around stupidly. he’s somehow sure harry will be here tonight. heaven knows he’s beautiful enough, special enough to fit in with this crowd. louis can picture him perfectly, unbridled and falling apart to the sounds of dirty pretty things.

 _bang, bang, you’re dead…._  
  
—he pictures harry’s long torso melting under his touch, his palms fusing with harry’s lean sides and brittle backbone—

_always so easily lead…_

—he would lead harry out of the throng into the hallway, a closet or the bathroom. they’d nip at each other and harry’s eyes would glint deviously, driving louis up the wall—

_bang, bang, you’re dead…_

—harry just  _has_  to taste salty and his lips have to be wet, too wet. their mouths would slide together messily and someone’s tooth would catch someone’s skin and they would keep going, the pain only making them feel real—

 _put all the rumors to bed_ … 

‑harry would lick a line up louis’ thigh after they had managed to free each other from the prison of clothing and he would blow lightly on it to make shivers erupt all over louis’ skin‑ 

 _bang_.  
  
 _bang_.  


niall claps in front of louis’ face a third time and he is ripped horribly from his visions of curls and tongues in illicit bathrooms. 

louis can’t see straight, he wants harry. he wants to sit down and pull harry down on top of him. he hasn’t quite grasped that harry only lives in his head tonight.  
  
he thinks his knees might buckle. 

"this is alexei, he’s head of more management here in the city,"niall yells over the music, and louis strings together the words clumsily. all he can think is that this isn’t harry, not at all. 

his brain is blanking out but he thinks he nods at the man. niall exits and the man smiles awkwardly at louis until he finally has the decency to summon a waitress for more drinks.

"wow,"the man says as louis throws back a fruity cocktail. the man has wide golden eyes, and louis senses his face pull in on itself as he feels the absence of green eyes so viciously that he thinks he might actually scream.  


the man is flirting with him, he’s pretty sure. he keeps running his hands through his quiff and trying to be witty. 

  
"babe, it’s too late in the night for funny," louis scoffs and he hates this more by the second, this dissatisfaction with perfectly good company and a perfectly good party.

"do you want to maybe go somewhere?" the man leans in and asks hotly in louis’ ear, and louis steps back, his heel catching on the floor. his legs are too soft to walk. he can only stand here and allow this man to hesitantly kiss the corner of his mouth. 

they are kissing more and louis doesn’t really care enough to stop it. he is a train wreck tonight, next destination unknown but certainly coming faster than he can prepare for. 

their hands join in, and their hips. this alexei knows what he is doing, and louis doesn’t mind his tongue against his teeth or his tall form overpowering louis so he has to bend back and look up to even see anything at all.

when louis pushes alexei backward and tries to stumble away, the older lad catches his wrist and looks at him with a massive question mark shining in his steady yellow eyes. louis has no answer, except everything that alexei can never be to him.

"you don’t have green eyes," louis hisses sharply like spitting poison, his words paralyzing alexei and freezing the room for an acute moment. alexei looks like he’s been slapped, the people around them notice and gawk like it is some sort of accident site. 

niall notices the disturbance and drags louis away quickly, pulls him to their coats and for the second time that night buttons louis’ clothes for him like he’s a fucking child. 

louis is numb and sad and everything he shouldn’t be.  


"jesus christ i bring over alexi fucking marchov to introduce you because he’s the best agent in chicago and you fucking disrespect him like that? are you kidding me right now?"

niall is in a rage and louis feels his lip start to tremble in response. he wants to fold himself into a tiny, neat size so niall can just carry him home and pack him away in a box or bag and never have to look at him again as long as he lives. 

"god, louis, what even happened out there?"  

louis closes his eyes against the hot tears rising in his eyes and trots blindly after niall, attached by niall’s force on his wrist. louis wonders if niall will shatter his bones or if he will let go before any damage is done. 

niall is still his lifeline, even though louis thinks niall shouldn’t have to drag him home like this.  
  
louis tries to answer but only a strangled noise creeps out of his mouth and betrays him. niall turns around and sees the wetness in his eyes and how drunk and scared he is and pulls him into his arms. 

"it’s okay, louis. i’ll take you home now."

and that’s what makes niall magic: he can always find the good within himself without even searching for very long, like it’s always resting right at the surface.

"i’m sorry, ni,"louis mumbles against niall’s throbbing neck vein and he really is, he knows he would be sorry even if he was sober. he is sorry for a lot of things: for fucking up the party, for making niall climb in his window instead of answering the door like a normal person, for being alone even when they are together. 

"i know you are. let me take you home, babe," niall whispers into louis’ hair and that only makes louis taste more saltwater in between his lips. he tries to hide his face as they walk down the street. the wind cuts them down to size and the passing cars speed in the opposite direction of their feet.

they walk for a long time until louis thinks he might be sober and niall leads him up to his flat, takes the key from louis’ pocket as if he knows exactly where louis has been hiding it and hustles louis to the bed.  
  
when he hits the mattress he knows for a fact he is far from sober and he watches the ceiling lurch around him without moving a single muscle. he thinks he will stay here forever, as still as a statue. if only he could be as empty as a statue, as shallow as plaster carved into smooth skin and vapid curves. 

the last thing he remembers before his eyes flutter shut is niall setting down a glass of water near his head and curling up against his side.  
  
niall’s calloused hands run through louis’ hair and he murmurs so softly that louis can’t even hear what he is saying. he doesn’t mind because it is enough that niall is there.

the night rushes by in the instant before he sighs to sleep, and he sees confetti blurring into obsidian and the colors of all the drinks he choked down. it spins into gold, into wide gold eyes that fade finally into the green of harry styles and as much as he loves niall’s arm resting firmly around him, he allows himself to pretend it’s someone else.

for someone who has never actually felt harry styles or kissed him or talked to him for more than two minutes, louis feels entitled. he can see it all so clearly: the boy’s sharp elbows and the rise and fall of his chest and his mumbling morning mouth, the corners a little wet and the color a raspberry jam.

louis sighs out and wonders if harry styles is still awake right now, or if he is even in the same city.

louis pretends harry is closing his eyes somewhere across town, wrapped in dark sheets and wondering about a boy with turquoise eyes and a delicate face. he imagines harry’s adam’s apple bobbing as the boy rolls over one last time and puts his own hand on his hip, pretending it’s louis’ much smaller one spreading his fingers out over the sharp cliff and pressing in, memorizing the muscle and the bone and how they move together when harry twists.

 _yes, wouldn’t it be nice to be in someone’s dreams tonight_?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> photographer!louis / model!harry
> 
> chicago, u.s.
> 
> louis sighs into empty air and takes pictures for indie labels and promises himself he’ll be better this time. harry still has pink lips but they used to smile so much more and he does his best work when he’s in a war with the camera. it’s hard to be found when you don’t think you’re lost.

"do you want me to really get on my knees?"  
  
it’s midday and louis has stopped by niall’s office to bring him lunch and beg him for a massive favor.

"i don’t need the image of you on your knees, thanks,"niall sniffs as he daintily accepts the bagged lunch from louis. he peers suspiciously inside, and louis is a little affronted that niall suspects an ulterior motive from a sandwich.

"so what exactly do you want me to do again?"

"it’s so simple," louis rushes to explain. and really, it is. it is also the most terrifying idea he has ever had.  
  
harry styles has been running circles in his mind for days.  
  
when louis put his bread in the toaster this morning, he stood leaning against the counter, his mind pondering how harry might like his toast. would he turn the dial up to 4 to get that nearly burnt texture, or would he like it the same as louis (set at 3 for a light golden crisp)? louis positively flailed backwards when his toast finally popped up and interrupted his thoughts. he took it as a sign from the universe to pull himself together and stop his sappiness.  
  
he finds it almost too easy to rewrite his own daily story to include harry. when he glances down the grocery aisle and sees a couple holding hands and picking out a package of pasta, he imagines trying to sneak food into the cart and harry catching him in the act, giving him a half-adoring, half-disapproving look but letting him buy it anyway. louis would stand on precarious tiptoes and touch his lips to harry’s, whispering  _you can’t say no to me, can you?_ harry would try to stitch his eyebrows into a stern expression but they would both know the truth, and they’d dissolve into their own world right in the middle of aisle four—canned soup and vegetables.

the way louis sees it, he and harry could make their own little world anywhere.  
  
this thought prompted him to stop by the deli on the corner and pick up an overpriced boxed lunch for niall; to rehearse his conversation all the way up three flights of stairs to his office.  
  
this idea heats him from the inside, makes him remember what it feels like to imagine his heart as two separate things: one beating, pumping muscle like on the posters in biology class and one secret room for the shivery feeling he gets when he imagines speaking words that brush harry’s ears.  
niall keeps his face impassive except for vigorous chewing motions while louis pours out his plan with a touch of desperation, and takes his time swallowing and sucking down a loud sip of lemonade to irk louis.  
  
when louis feels as though he may lift off of the ground and float away with the anticipation nestled in his chest cavity, niall finally opens his mouth to speak.

"that was a good sandwich."  
  
louis smiles in a manner well-suited to a patient serial killer, and niall finally takes the hint as louis’ left eye twitches.

"okay. so i think i’ll help you out with that, tommo."  
  
it’s a slightly adolescent feeling, the giddiness that washes over louis, but he tries not to overthink it as he plants a sloppy kiss on niall’s cheek.  
  
tendrils of fear wrap around his insides. in only hours, he will find out if he has a chance of ever seeing harry again.

____ _  
_

as he waits for niall’s update, he decides he needs to prepare. he opens the door to his hall closet and sees three large boxes coated in fine dust, lined up where he left them over a year ago. inside are his treasures: his photographs from college, collections of art that had inspired him to want to capture life in pictures, his vintage polaroid and film cameras. the smell is stale but all the materials feel like the hug of a familiar friend.  
  
he sits in the middle of his woven rug, completely engulfed in this art from his past. he savors opening each envelope and running his fingers over each college project. he laughs softly at his inspiration books full of ‘90s grunge models and timeless portraits that are almost so earnest he has to avert his eyes. he blinks back at the empty gaze of random models and the more personal portrayals of his old friends and lovers. if he had to save something in a fire, it would be these boxes. even when louis is at his most lifeless, he knows he has these boxes that show how deeply he felt once.  
  
he runs his fingers slowly over the cover of a navy blue album. the leather is creamy and ripped in several places, and suddenly he remembers exactly what is inside.  
  
a pair of familiar caramel brown eyes peer up from the first page, and louis smiles involuntarily.  


"i’d almost forgotten about you," louis whispers to the figure splashed in one dimension across the pages. louis remembers how shy liam, the first boy he had ever plucked up the courage to ask to pose for him, had been when he had entered the small studio.  
  
he could do better now: the lighting isn’t quite right on some of the black and white shots, but louis still feels proud when he looks at the project. he managed to capture the exact qualities of liam that had caused him to fall in puppy love with the boy over the course of the shoot: his steadiness, the kindness that he exuded, his honesty. the expanse of liam’s chest provided the perfect place for louis to rest his head when he was lost, and he had learned two important things that year: he wanted to steal moments on camera forever and he wanted to seek solace in beautiful boys.  
  
next to the blue album, an experimental shoot he had done as his capstone project demonstrates how far he progressed in just four years. fierce, naked models covered in neon paint prance across the film in a series of daring action shots, and he remembers the difficulty of coordinating so many bodies at once. he had received a small award for the collection and garnered a bit of critics’ attention. he was proud, but he still favored the soul-baring portrait shots of liam, even if they existed only to be tucked away under cardboard and darkness.  
  
his fingers itch to illuminate the studio with flashes of light, the bursts in which he always sees himself laid stark and bare. in the harsh light, there is no room for pretenses or illusions, and he rediscovers the way of the world every time he thinks he’s captured something precious and ephemeral for himself.

he can’t pinpoint why he has been losing his love for the camera along with everything else lately, but he thinks he has found the exactly what he needs to get it back.  


now he waits, something he has never been good at. after repacking the boxes, he sprawls out in the middle of the rug and enjoys the feeling of stretching his muscles. the hardwood floor digs into his spine, even through the soft material. he does not mind; he enjoys the company of his backbone at times like this. he thinks about all the other parts of himself that he forgets about on a daily basis: the bumps on the outside of his wrists, the freckle on the underside of his upper arm,  the single lock of hair that curls resolutely at the nape of his neck. he makes a mental note to discover himself more often.  
  
as he drifts off into a fitful mid-afternoon nap, he realizes he has been waiting for the one who will appreciate those parts of him even more fiercely.  


_____  
  
he is pacing and pulling at his sleeves. his feet can’t quite grip the smooth studio floor and he slides a little in his hurry to arrange everything perfectly.  
  
"play it cool, yeah?"  
  
he realizes how uncool it is to talk out loud to himself and shakes his head.  
  
his feet are racing around from corner to corner, straightening loose edges and fluffing pillows on the couch. his pulse is racing in his wrists and neck but thumping in his temples.  
  
he stops.  


it can’t be long now.  
  
  
niall had been an absolute genius in pulling off the plan: calling the small uptown agency and planting the fake casting call request for harry styles into their book of messages. his public relations background made for a smooth process, and he seemed like he had enjoyed the task, despite how much flack he gave louis for asking him to set harry up.  
  
"it’s at the corner of jackson and lasalle, yeah. three o’clock. it’s a small casting; specially scouted models. just send harry. thanks, my pleasure."  
 _  
_  
in terms of putting his best foot forward, louis knows that pretending there is an open casting call for a shoot when really only harry has been invited is dishonest. on the bright side, he is wearing distressed lace-up leather boots he is very keen on, so he figures that means his missteps are less horrible today.  
  
 _what the fuck was i thinking?_ flits across his brain every few minutes, and the feels like an impressionist painting as he tries to move through the heavy air. with every step he feels like he leaves a splotch of himself around: right there by the window sits his common sense (a burnt orange) and he thinks he spies his dark blue bravery splashed across the bookcase on the far side of the room.  


the knocking at the heavy door shatters the air; the shards puncture louis’ lungs. he pauses for three seconds to try to gather his composure, but just ends up shorter of breath than ever.  
  
 _so this is happening._  


the disconnect between his head and his hand is the only thing that allows him to pull the door open. there is no room for thought in the sudden foot between where he stands and where harry styles does, slightly outside the doorframe.  


he pulls the door open and it feels like the start of everything.  
  
harry eyes the empty studio and lands back on louis. he still moves like a slow summer, and louis feels like he has to let his words fall like rain to compensate.  
  
"hi, harry. so this probably looks a little bit weird to you right now. well, I’m louis. we met a couple weeks ago. not sure if you remember." __  
  
when harry looks at louis, he really looks, and louis feels like his bones are on display in an x-ray and he is waiting to find out if anything is broken.  
harry nods in his unhurried way. louis can’t help notice how the tips of his curls lift every time he brings his chin downward.  
  
"of course i remember. you’re louis tomlinson. you take pictures."  
  
he is past the frame now, and louis finally lets go of the door and it clicks shut.

the silence swallows up everything. the studio is so vast for two people with its high ceilings and distant walls. he and harry take up so little space within it.

"the one and only. well, let me explain…this…to you." _  
  
_and he does, looking straight into harry’s thoughtful eyes. by some miracle he thinks he manages to explain it without sounding like a complete psychopath.  
  
"so there isn’t really a casting?"harry asks at the end.  
  
"not really, no."  
  
"but you still want to take pictures?"

 _  
_ "yes, i do." _  
  
_"for?" __  
  
louis pauses here. he hasn’t quite figured out why he needs to do this yet, but those are the kind of words that will surely send harry running out the door.  
  
"i have this spot at a small gallery coming up and i need to fill it."  
  
harry sucks on the inside of his cheek.

  
"with me?"  


louis fiddles with a button on his sleeve but does not duck his head.  
  
"yes, with you."  
  
"do you mind if i ask why?"  
  
"well—"  
  
he wants to tell harry about the effect of his mint green eyes on louis’ heartbeat, how they make it hard to breathe even just in memory. he wants to tell him that his jawline is the strongest thing louis has ever seen; it makes him feel strong, too.  


he wants to tell harry how transparent he feels, but how he thinks he can capture all of harry’s layers on film. he longs to say that he needs this, too. he needs to feel like this again.  
  
"—i still feel bad about you missing that call from before. you probably would have gotten the job. not that zayn malik isn’t great but…think of this as another chance?" __  
  
harry laughs somewhere low and quiet within himself.  
  
"you’re very sweet. i guess i was a bit disappointed about that one."  
  
louis exhales when he thinks harry has bought his cheap stories.  


"so this is like a second chance, except not for a magazine. or for a paycheck. or for any reason at all, really." _  
  
_harry’s mouth rearranges itself into a smirk.  
  
"why should i do it, then?" _  
  
_louis hopes he’ll say yes so they can see if there are sparks.  
  
"do it for ART, harry!" _  
_  
the sound of harry really laughing is intoxicating to louis. he feels like he has just had champagne and the bubbles are lifting him _up up up_. it is dizzying.  
  
"well then tell me what to do, boss."  
  
***  
  
they are on a break. louis has mostly just been testing the lighting and his shutter speed so far, but he wants needs some air so he and harry crowd onto the small balcony.

louis takes the cigarette from harry’s fingers (god they are endless and pink in the cold) and he feels like he is sliding around in his own skin as he fumbles with the lighter. he barely smokes; his hands don’t quite know what to do with themselves and he feels like a mannequin, all loose joints and unseemly edges. he brings the burning cigarette to his lips and the taste is just as acrid as he remembers but he enjoys the distraction. he feels a little french as he holds it delicately between his second and third fingers, and this gives him the courage to sneak a sidelong glance at harry.

 _oh oh oh,_ harry is like silk when he moves, when he wraps his lips around the cigarette and when he brings his arms to rest against the balcony railing, looking every bit an indie darling starring against a set of dim colors and dashed ambitions. he steals the spotlight from the buildings behind him in his quiet way. louis can’t see the smoke disappear into the sky because they are the exact same color, but he imagines it streams upward in ribbons as fluid as harry’s every movement. he, of course, looks like he has been smoking for years, like he was born to exhale quiet fumes with a furrow in his brow. he was born to be looked at, to be felt deep in the marrow of people’s bones and louis counts himself among those who could study harry in awe like he is cramming for some useless exam.

he needs to know absolutely everything or he just might fade out of sight. 

he feels wound up so he shifts his posture, standing up straight against the complaints of his spine. he wants to do something impulsive, he can feel the energy building inside of him. a manic laugh bubbles to the base of his throat. he feels high, and he chances another look at harry with what he imagines are wild eyes. 

harry blinks slowly as his tongue flicks at his bottom lip. louis can see the dryness from where he stands, he wants to feel it in his mouth, in between his teeth.

"you know what?"harry breaks in, his voice a throaty gasp from the smoke. louis doesn’t want it to change. he wants to hear harry’s charcoal voice croaking his name in the morning, his hair tangled and his eyes glassy with sleep.

louis tilts his head in response. he doesn’t trust himself to speak without the destructive energy inside of him escaping, ruining the moment by being too much too fast. louis is always crashing around corners and cutting off sweet chances before they happen, and he has to remind himself to contain the bounding force within his cells. he packages it up tightly by holding his breath, careful not to let the edges spill over the lines like mistakes in a coloring book.

"i don’t smoke, actually," harry admits as he flicks away his cigarette, still smoldering. it lands on the concrete near his left boot, but he makes no move to stub it out. louis’ limp fingers drop his soon after and it seems to fall in slow motion, tumbling end over end before coming to rest on the cement.

louis finally feels the laugh spill over and it drifts away from him, exposed in the thin air. harry’s low laugh gradually joins and they look at their two used, burned out heaps of ash on the ground and laugh at the stupidity of inhaling lungfuls of chemicals for each other.

louis thinks _no, that can’t be right,_ as he stares at the smoldering piles because yes, he may have grown tired and burned out days ago but he can see that harry is still freshly lit, simmering under the surface. 

"the way you look with a cigarette, i’d never have guessed," louis teases, mimicking harry’s blasé smoking motions with excessive wrist twirls and pouted lips, a pale imitation of harry’s grace, he knows.

harry nudges him lightly, and louis wishes the thickness of his peacoat wouldn’t hold their skin so far apart. they have grazed through wool and cotton but louis has yet to really feel harry’s skin. he imagines it somewhere between a whisper and a groan; soft expanses and warm corners that call to his mouth when he lets his mind navigate it properly.

 _i want you,_ he longs to say,  _i see you through my lens but i feel you somewhere in my skeleton._

lines like that make louis gag and he chides himself for becoming a sap in the presence of harry. he turns, leading the way back into the studio, sweeping the moment firmly under the rug along with the rest of his  _almosts_  and  _maybes_.

he struggles to adjust the settings on his camera with stiff fingers and harry moves languidly around the studio, examining the photos on the wall and touching everything as he passes. his boots scuff the floor, and it reminds louis of the day harry traipsed into the studio, a little too late: those boots, those twisted ankles and those slim legs. they make louis think harry doesn’t have roots, only branches and leaves. he comes and goes as he pleases and he doesn’t need the ground to hold him down.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> photographer!louis / model!harry
> 
> chicago, u.s.
> 
> louis sighs into empty air and takes pictures for indie labels and promises himself he’ll be better this time. harry still has pink lips but they used to smile so much more and he does his best work when he’s in a war with the camera. it’s hard to be found when you don’t think you’re lost.

louis is overly conscious of how he moves. he places his feet carefully on the slick wooden floors so he doesn’t slip. he moves his arms too quickly, then too slowly to try to compensate. he fiddles with his camera for too long, knowing eventually he will have to face harry straight on.  
  
harry is casual. the studio lighting throws shadows into the dips of his collarbones, into the space below his full bottom lip. it is striking and louis isn’t sure whether he likes the pale, light expanses or the darkened areas more.

he snaps his first picture and harry’s pupils quickly adjust to the bright flash of the camera. louis thinks harry looks positively leonine when his pupils shrink and grow again, swallowing up the green mercilessly.  
  
"er, sorry, should have warned you there."  
  
"‘s okay. i’m used to it."  
  
a few moments of silence ensue with only the punctuation of the clicking flash. the pictures are fine, louis is not.  
  
louis can’t breathe properly. he can only take the same photo again and again. this isn’t creative, it is just cowardly. none of this is what he wanted for the project, for himself.  
  
he slowly approaches harry where he’s standing, still in model pose with his arms limp by his sides and his bones jutted out on display. harry’s shirt is pulling a bit to the left. his necklaces are covering the expanse of his neck that louis wants to capture on camera or explore with his tongue.

"do you mind?"  louis asks, reaching up. he is usually not so soft with his subjects. 

harry just looks at him steadily in response, sizing him up. louis tries not to look at his own figure in the reflection of harry’s glassy eyes.

he lifts a shaky hand and grips the cool metal chain of harry’s longest necklace. the golden pendant has a symbol on it, the same one pictured outside the yoga place down the street: peace or harmony or something. it frames his neck and chest nicely, but louis wants to see harry raw and unadorned.

his fingers graze the outsides of harry’s neck, the baby-soft skin barely holding in his delicate blue veins. louis thinks he sees harry flinch, but the moment disappears as quickly as it happened. he’s left with the necklace wound through his fingers.

he reaches up one more time and grips the material of harry’s charcoal grey shirt. it feels soft and worn; it reminds louis of the sensation of sheets against his body right after a long shower. he tugs the collar to the right so the neck is centered on harry’s chest. he spies inky edges peeking out, begging to be discovered.

"oh, you have tattoos there, too?"

harry looks down at his own chest, as if he has forgotten the markings painted on his skin.

"er, yeah. is that a problem? i know a lot of photographers don’t want to work with tattoos but i just…i couldn’t not get them."

louis peers closer, murmuring  _no, not a problem at all_  and harry tentatively pulls his shirt down lower to show him the full figures of the swallows just as louis reaches up to do it himself. 

their fingers brush. louis feels heat flare somewhere low within him.

"they’re…"

"they’re mine,"harry says and louis can tell he has had to defend his choices often in the past. the front edge of his words are hardened, like he has tasted something bitter and he needs to spit it out.

"no, i was going to say they suit you," louis assures, reaching out his hand to trace lightly over the blackened skin. he wishes he could dip his fingers in the ink and leave his fingerprints all over harry’s body. he wants to prove harry isn’t some mirage in front of his eyes. he’s here, they are here, this is all happening.

harry leans back an inch in response to the soft contact. it tickles, but he doesn’t move his feet away. louis becomes overly conscious that they have only inches between them.

he feels clumsy. he cannot quite meet harry’s eyes but he can’t bring himself to walk away. the air is thick, or maybe he is merely imagining it to be so loaded; that each moment is separated into hundreds of tiny, infinite increments. he feels like he is watching the slowed-down frames of a movie. he knows he would be yelling and throwing popcorn at himself, the main character, urging him to do something. do anything.

he is absolutely rooted, though. harry might be free but his own feet seem to grow right into the ground and his arms are frozen in place, encased in bark and wood and pulp and the only part of him that is alive is somewhere deep inside. he’s rooted to the spot and he loses track of the moment, he stands still and finds only deep green eyes on him, weighing him down even more heavily.

"so how are the photos turning out?" harry’s lips form words slowly and louis remembers the reason they are there. camera, photos, project. right.

"they’re pretty good so far," he chokes out, rolling up his sleeves self-consciously. he needs more air or space, something.

"pretty good. well that’s high praise,"harry teases in his low voice, adjusting his curls and continuing to peer at louis who only looks at his feet, shuffles them a bit. god, harry is hot when he’s bashful. louis wants to embarrass him, to bring the red to his cheeks and the bite to his lip. he wants to strip him down and take away his armor until he’s bare and there are no secrets between them.

"no, you’re…stunning," louis begins carefully, "but i’m not quite sure if i’m getting at what i want here." _  
_

harry cocks his head. his pupils remain large in the fading light, his cheeks look like porcelain. he is flustered.

"it’s a medium thing," louis explains. the act relaxes him, he knows he can handle words. if there’s one thing he’s ever been good at, it is talking, and he lets his words form a barrier between them. even though they still stand within the same space, talk seems to diffuse the nervous charge that has been building up in the air between them, in louis’ lungs and mouth.

"maybe i’m not warmed up yet. let me take a few more, yeah? maybe we could make it less studio."

harry nods seriously.

"we’re in a studio, though."

louis’ laugh sounds like wind chimes.

"maybe you could just kind of move around and i’ll try to get you then."

he sees harry’s posture relax. he slumps a bit, his arms are looser and he looks like he can exhale. inhale. exhale. it’s all suddenly less shallow. his chest rises and falls, and louis feels more real already. the last moments have been plastic, and he wants authenticity. he wants to see harry’s frame and what it looks like when he’s not trying to hold it up so straight.

"sure. what should i do?"  

"erm, whatever you’d normally do. pretend i don’t have a camera."

harry walks over to his leather satchel and rummages through it, humming softly. he pulls out a water bottle and tilts his head back to take a swig. the long line of his neck makes louis itch to pull out his camera and snap the moment; the skin is almost see-through and his adam’s apple makes a cliff against the light that pours in from the window and frames him. he doesn’t, though. he doesn’t want to scare harry away.

harry walks over to the couch next. he sits down and feels the velvet with his hands. he’s tactile, louis has noticed. he likes to explore everything. louis wonders what the boy’s hands would feel like on his own skin.  _no no no_.

"so, what’s the vision?" harry asks.

louis unscrews his camera from the tripod. already, everything feels more fluid. he holds it up to his eye to size up harry through the lens, just the way he likes it. everything is safer with his eyelashes pressed against the glass and all the machinery set up between them.

"it has to be real. it was stupid to set up like a magazine shoot. it’s not supposed to be like that at all."

harry stretches out, his body splaying over the entire couch and laughs deeply. louis hears a series of his joints crack in response.  _is this not magazine enough for you?_

louis snaps a picture, mostly as a joke. harry still looks striking.

"it’s supposed to feel like meeting someone for the first time."

harry nods, not joking anymore.

"it doesn’t matter if it looks good,"louis keeps talking, still clicking pictures to break up the silence. harry is still lounging on the couch, but sitting up more attentively now, still sliding his fingers along the soft material.

"it just has to be real."

louis can see harry mulling this over in the pervading silence. it isn’t uncomfortable; louis basks in it. he feels easy, like his organs are sliding around inside of him a little bit. everything is loose; his limbs aren’t stuck in one position anymore.

"real. that’s something i haven’t tried to do in awhile."

louis lowers his camera. he doesn’t know if harry is talking about modeling or life, now. they seem to float between concrete and the big picture in their conversations, and louis is pleased. this is how he usually judges if someone is interesting or not. harry clearly has layers and they are slowly, tentatively peeling back. he wonders what he will find inside of this beautiful boy. he wonders if harry sees inside people, too; if he wants to break louis open and see what has been hidden for too long.

"you don’t have to pose. you don’t even have to try. whatever is genuine, just do it. this project is me trying for some sort of honesty, i think." _  
_

he doesn’t think, he knows, but he never comes off as sure about things as he really is.

harry sucks on his own bottom lip. it’s pink and lush and louis brings the camera shield up to eye level once again.

"do you do this a lot?"harry asks.

he snaps harry pursing his lips together in the middle of the  _o_ sound in  _you_. he looks childlike, his lips a perfect ring and his eyes focused slightly above the sightline of the camera.

"i’ve only done one other project like this, it was years ago."

louis waves his hand dismissively, remembering not quite being able to meet liam’s brown eyes during their shoot but being moved by the resulting photos. louis knows honesty is difficult for him, like looking at someone shivering and naked.

harry nods slowly. he moves like sunday morning, with extra grace. when he stretches his muscles he has the loose fluidity of some sort of thick liquid. _what was it again? ah yes, this boy is like molasses,_ louis recalls.

"i’ll try."

louis barks out a laugh. "you obviously don’t need to try in pictures, harry. it’s all very natural."

harry looks serious. his eyelashes almost touch his cheeks. louis hastens to snap a picture. the shadows under his eyes make him look sadder than louis has ever seen him, but he isn’t quite sure if it’s a trick of the light or if he really did deflate at his comment.

"i can pose, yeah."

louis sets down the camera on the floor and straightens up. he wants to show harry that this conversation has weight. this day holds great weight for him.

he folds his legs onto the few square feet of the couch that harry isn’t occupying. they’re close; harry shifts and his long leg brushes louis’ forearm. the seams in the rough denim of harry’s jeans could leave scratches on his arm. louis longs for something to leave a mark today, the whole thing feels too surreal. 

"i know how to control my face and stuff,"he continues, still readjusting his position on the couch."i started modeling when i was young, so i never needed to do anything else except know how to open my eyes and set my mouth and everything."

louis wonders if harry feels plastic, too. or maybe wax, like he could stand in a museum and let everyone who walks by steal their own visions of him until he isn’t real himself, he’s just a pretty image burned into retinas. 

"you’re different." 

louis bites down a second too late to stop these words from leaving his mouth. 

harry doesn’t answer. louis traces a nonsensical pattern across his own leg.

"i mean i’ve only met you twice or whatever," louis begins, trying to sound casual. his voice breaks slightly on  _you._ he feels like he’s fifteen and capturing butterflies to store in his stomach.  
  
he finds he doesn’t mind this loss of control one bit.  
  
____  
  
the next day, he returns to the studio to shoot zayn malik for lavender’s clothing company. the space is full to the brim with harried assistants, stylists, lighting specialists and lavender herself, who seems to take up most of the room with her expressive arm gestures and loud voice.  
  
zayn is unobtrusive in the corner of the studio, running his hands over the buttery leather jacket he is to wear. he looks as sharp as ever, and louis wonders how much he remembers from their encounter at the party.  
  
everything about the day is designed to run like clockwork, and before he knows it he has taken over fifty photos and can smell lavender near his right shoulder, hovering around and trying to give zayn directions.  
  
louis doesn’t mind her, though. the shoot is going well, zayn is striking all the right poses and he stands as pure shade against a whitewashed brick background. he looks like a rogue with his stubble and his leather. it reminds louis of reading  _the outsiders_  in his younger years; he can easily picture zayn breaking someone’s jaw in an alley for throwing out a stray drunken comment about his family.  
  
lavender is cooing how wonderfully it is all turning out, how zayn looks absolutely ace with his clenched jaw and his hooded eyes. between oozing praise for louis’ perfect exposure levels and zayn’s natural moodiness, she is making the whole event pleasant. these are the kind of jobs louis always envisioned having when he was working his way through art school: fat paycheck, good publicity, minimum strife.  
  
and yet he can’t help remember the studio in an emptier state, one without artificial lighting or any helpers bustling around.

amidst the chaos, he stops and breathes in deeply. he remembers the unassuming silence of stealing moments with harry styles on these very floorboards; the way harry drifted from the couch to the windowsill to the small bookcase in the corner, filled with photography books and one tiny paperback on the top shelf for whenever louis wanted to return to it ( _the picture of dorian grey_ , his absolute favorite).  
  
his mind had jumped instantly to a quote from the well-worn, dog-eared pages of the little book:  
  
 _i knew that i had come face to face with someone whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if i allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself._

he was sure his cheeks had flushed crimson and he was eternally grateful that harry could not hear his thoughts in that instant.

instead, he parted his lips and said: "i can’t bear the idea of my soul being hideous," testing whether harry knew anything from the book or not.  
  
harry had snapped his neck around to peer at louis.  
  
"i think your soul is far from hideous. not even ugly or unfortunate looking."  
  
louis smiled.

"it was a quote from that book, actually."  
  
harry ducked his head low and smiled in a defeated sort of way.

"you probably won’t believe me now but i actually do read quite a lot. not this one, though."  
  
you can take it, if you want. it’s good. shit, no. that doesn’t even do it justice. it’s profound, really.  
  
harry’s dimples returned and he picked up the paperback, his huge hand dwarfing the cover of the unassuming book.  
  
louis felt his stomach lurch again and ripped his gaze from harry’s slim fingers.

"if my soul isn’t unfortunate, your face isn’t unfortunate."  
  
he was rewarded with a harry laugh that bubbled up deep from the boy’s chest and flew impossibly quickly into the air. it filled the studio and louis felt his breath catch in his throat.

"-louis. louis?" _  
_

he is yanked back into the present of the busy studio, back into the clothing shoot at the sound of lavender’s voice rasping into his ear.

"are you ready to switch it up, hun?" _  
  
_he nods automatically. right, he has captured enough of the leather jacket and now it’s time for the next.  
  
zayn comes walking out of the dressing area in the corner stiffly, louis wonders if something is wrong.  
  
he realizes that zayn is wearing skin-tight leather pants. his angelic face is creased into consternation; his eyes look dark and his mouth is set in a firm line. for the first time, he doesn’t look like he holds all the world’s power. out of respect, louis keeps a deadpan face as he readjusts his camera and tries not to look directly at zayn’s long, thin legs. the pants are so tight louis is sure he will hear a massive rip at any moment. he is absolutely positive if this happens, he won’t be able to contain the laughter collecting inside of his ribcage.  
  
he gets zayn sitting on some prop stairs in the leather pants, leaning back and giving the camera a challenging  _fuck all of you_ sort of smirk. his razor jaw is thrown into sharp relief with the lights, and louis has a feeling zayn will look absolutely devastating printed in black and white.  
  
"i’m getting chills, babe!"lavender crows in his left ear this time. she holds up her lilly-white arms as proof.  _this is art._

louis smiles graciously.  
  
"thank you, lav. anyone who doesn’t buy your clothes after this would be crazy. zayn is a sure sell." _  
_

he wants to set her straight, to tell her that this isn’t art. this is a pretty boy and a contrived setting; it’s eye candy for the mainstream but it doesn’t mean anything.

yesterday he saw beneath harry’s skin, into the depths of a stranger. even though harry’s left hand was blurry in one picture or his head was tilted back in a messy laugh in another, they all told a story.  
  
beneath the gilded gold smile that stretched across his face, beneath the burrows of his dimples and the shine of his wide eyes, louis had found something dark and tantalizing.  
  
in the moments when their conversation had slowed and they communicated in long looks and a tentative give-and-take of little pieces of their lives, louis had found something inside harry that he hoped to capture on film.

and louis thinks  _that_  is art. not  _this_.  
  
but he smiles with his mouth and his eyes stay still when he calls a wrap on the day.  
  
zayn comes over and claps him on the back gently, still struggling in the leather pants.

"those are very fierce, you know," louis says, finally allowed to tease. zayn’s scowl sets him into a fit of genuine laughter, and he thinks it feels nice.  
  
they are standing by the large windows and zayn looks much less devilish in the bright daylight.  
  
they chat for a few minutes, louis taking in zayn’s interesting accent and his airy voice. he’s shy, louis realizes, not aloof.

zayn picks up something sitting on the sill and brings it up to caramel-eye level.  
  
"looks like someone left this here?" _  
_

louis focuses in on the object, recognizing the obscure symbol pressed into the front of a chunky golden pendant.

"oh, yeah. that’s a friend’s. must have left it here or something." _  
  
_zayn narrows his eyes so his lashes are almost touching, forming a lovely fringe.  
  
"hold up, i’ve definitely seen this before." _  
  
it’s always the quiet ones,_ louis curses internally, watching zayn put two and two together with the agility of a regular detective.  _always noticing everything._  
  
"it’s that guy who missed this job, the curly one. he was wearing this necklace when he came in."  
  
louis nods. he feels oddly possessive of this information, like their time in the studio was sacred and not for anyone else.  
  
"yeah, it is his."  
  
zayn looks up at louis finally and hands over the necklace. parts of the chain are warm from his skin while parts remain freezing cold against louis’ fingers.

"that’s harry styles, innit?"  
  
louis can’t believe he’s blushing at this.  
  
"yes, that’s harry styles. do you know him?"  
  
zayn’s searching look is his only answer.  
  
just when louis is about to get massively uncomfortable under the scrutiny, zayn parts his lips. 

"i would be careful with harry styles, if i were you." _  
_

he leaves louis open-mouthed and holding the delicate chain next to the windowsill where just yesterday louis had felt his heart beat out of his chest as he and harry peered out at the city streets below. ("falling is my biggest fear," harry had said. "i have dreams about it sometimes.") _._  
  
somehow the ground looks much farther than it had even yesterday.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> photographer!louis / model!harry
> 
> chicago, u.s.
> 
> louis sighs into empty air and takes pictures for indie labels and promises himself he’ll be better this time. harry still has pink lips but they used to smile so much more and he does his best work when he’s in a war with the camera. it’s hard to be found when you don’t think you’re lost.

louis begins the week after his harry encounter buzzing, so full to the brim with energy that niall asks him several times if he’s begun taking crystal meth or something of the sort, and louis just enjoys how the laughter doesn’t scrape his throat on its way out.  
with each passing day, he can feel his feet sink deeper into the ground. by thursday (has it really only been five days? he wonders helplessly) he feels his old restlessness shrouding him again, and jokes start to die before they touch his lips.

he and niall are sitting on his sofa, niall digging into chinese food that louis is pretty sure expired a week ago and louis refusing to have anything except tea with lemon because that’s just how he is when he’s in one of his moods. niall sees this, sees louis’ foot jiggling impatiently and his eyes raking the walls instead of focusing on the tv set, so he sighs and sets down his takeout container.

"alright, let’s have it."  
  
louis cocks an eyebrow, refusing to dignify his friend with a response even though he knows he was half hoping niall would sense his distress and ask him about it anyway.

"come on, louis. i can’t relax with you sighing right in my ear every three seconds and shaking the whole couch with your twitching."

louis sighs again, a reflex, and mumbles out a soft "sorry."

"is it that guy, the one you had me lure for you?" niall prods.

louis makes a discontented noise and shifts around on the couch, settling further down into the cushions. his knees touch niall’s ribs and the blonde boy runs his fingers over louis’ bony kneecaps mindlessly. louis concentrates on the swirling fingertips, how they move between freckles, over the hills and valleys of his anatomy.

niall is the only one who has ever been able to find the little parts of him that he doesn’t mind: his knobby knees and the soft wispy hair at the back of his neck, the delicate shells of his ears that turn red when he’s embarrassed and the tiny chip on one of his top front teeth. he uncoils his muscles and settles into niall more firmly, enjoying their closeness. niall always knows how to stitch him up when he thinks he has finally unraveled for the last time.

"i’ll beat him up if you want," niall cajoles, making a fist with one hand while continuing to trace patterns on louis’ legs with his other.

louis fights the corners of his lips viciously and loses.

"it’s not really like that, you know?" louis offers vaguely, testing the weight on his tongue before he allows niall to hear the words.

"what is it like, then? you started out the week looking like the cat who ate the canary and now you’re more like a canary who died in a coal mine accident."

louis shoots niall a sideways look for his sheer weirdness and starts to talk. once he has started, he can’t seem to stop. he recounts every detail of the day and every fleeting feeling he remembers when he was with harry; he wonders if niall can stand to hear any more about harry’s second dimple and how it only emerged when louis was particularly funny, or how harry’s elbows don’t seem to fit with the rest of his body but he looks perfect anyway. he talks about how it felt to capture the precise mood of the moment on camera: sunlight streaming through the window, harry’s eyes squinted intensely against the glow and looking to the left of the lens. louis talks about the flatness of the shoot the next day, about zayn’s sour warning and the uneasy feeling that curled up in his stomach after hearing the ominous words. he shares how happy he was at first, how he felt hazy and untouchable in the time that followed harry but now has started to focus more on the way zayn’s face had fallen when he had figured out that louis and harry were something.

he finishes softer than he began, with pink cheeks and mumbling lips: he thinks he’s pathetic for letting a stranger affect him like this, he doesn’t know where he lost himself and why he needs the idea of harry so very badly.

niall listens, nodding once or twice and appraising louis with serious ocean eyes fringed in sunset lashes. time drifts past slowly as they look at each other.

"you’ve got it bad, huh?" niall finally says.

louis nods, a lump in his throat.

niall ponders, blinking slowly and rolling his neck around a few times until the top of his spine pops percussively.

"you need to see harry again."

louis widens his eyes at this. "see him again? i thought—i thought for sure you’d say he’s bad news and not worth my time or something. you know, typical pep talk stuff."

niall slaps louis’ knee. "don’t doubt my advice, tommo. now listen. this styles guy, he seems like he’s got that essence thing you’re always going on about. you know you’re picky, you never like anyone no matter how many guys i find for you. the last time i heard you talk about someone like this was never. that has to mean something."

louis picks absently at a hangnail as he considers this. he cringes when a faint trail of blood rises in a tiny river when he pulls too hard.

"what about zayn’s warning? i know zayn a bit. he’s a nice guy, very thoughtful and everything. he’s different than the other models, he’s always kind of watching things unfold. the way he said to watch out for harry—what if he’s seen something?"

the edge in his own voice frightens him; he shouldn’t be this sharp about a handful of chances with a stranger.

he sounds soft when he whispers, "this is why i don’t let myself feel like this, niall."

they have spread out enough words between them, so niall just waits for the lull of his fingertips to slow louis’ breathing until his chin is tucked into his shoulder and the creases in his forehead have smoothed in sleep.

***  
they wake up with imprints pressed into their fresh white morning skin, their limbs jutted against each other and against the back of the couch.

niall steps out onto the fire escape to answer work phone calls and louis decides the sun is bright enough and he feels rested enough to make a proper breakfast. as he is pulling out the bowls to mix together the ingredients for blueberry muffins, niall enters the small kitchen.

by the time louis pulls the tray from the often and tries to taste the flavors in the air with the tip of his tongue, he has found a way to make up to niall for last night.

louis cuts niall off mid-plea.

"you’re aware that last time i saw this guy, i pushed away him because he wasn’t a model that i had spoken to for two minutes and then became obsessed with, right?"

niall nods, louis continues.

"niall, i borderline assaulted this guy while completely drunk off my ass. it doesn’t get much worse as far as first impressions go."

niall explains that the man, head of more management alexei marchov, was teetering on the edge of signing a huge contract with niall’s pr firm. the two businesses planned on closing the deal with an industry party, and alexei had specifically asked niall to ask (louis hmphs because it seems less like a question than a bribe) his "spirited, blue-eyed friend" to attend the party on his arm.

louis thinks it sounds like one of the worst ideas he has heard in his life, but niall’s eyes are huge and shiny and his bottom lip is poking out over the top in a subtle puppy dog face, and louis figures he owes niall greater things for putting him back together last night and every night before that.

and so, for the second morning in two weeks, he pulls out his most striking formal clothes and idly thinks about actually swiping something expensive this time. today, louis thinks the world owes him a little something extra.

_____

louis often feels like his life is a string of potent déjà vu moments, like he lived a finite handful of real experiences over the years and now his life is simply patched out of these with a few details changed.

he has already lived this party, a hundred parties before this. he and niall walked up to this same door a few days ago and when they smiled, the corners of their mouths turned up in exactly the same charming way. these drinks, the dancers and the pretensions are all identical and he only knows it is a brand new night because his fingers are clasped tightly around the small metal pendent in his pocket. tonight, harry’s necklace is his talisman and he pretends the symbols burned into the gold says good luck. he needs an anchor to stop from being swept into this sea of lonely faces.

alexei has sharp lion eyes with blown pupils, he’s broad and his smile arcs into carnivorous ends. the lights reflect from his teeth, he’s all teeth and winks tonight and he takes louis’ jacket and ushers him inside. louis feels kept but he disengages from the scene and simply does all the things he knows alexei would like. he remembers tonight is for niall, bright little niall who can’t tell a lie and never lets his best friend down.

louis arches his eyebrows at all the right moments as alexei talks, he leans in conspiratorially to drive the older man to the edge and to play the part. he thinks it feels nice to be wanted, to be looked at like a prize. when alexei hands him an acid green drink, he opens his lips and seeks every last drop to pull him out of his own mind.

"so, louis tomlinson, what do you do?" alexei leans in until only inches separate his vodka mouth from louis’ lips.

"sleep a lot, take pictures when i’m not."

alexei laughs but louis thinks he was just being honest.

watching the mass on the dance floor is another deviation from louis’ déjà vu. last time he had been at the very center of the universe, touching and bending against the irresistible wall of music, but this time he feels entirely detached. the beat moves around him instead of through, like he is nothing at all.

the song changes. the quiet, tense opening chords of 505 by arctic monkeys alters the atmosphere. this is louis’ favorite song; he feels it mesmerizing him and finally he has the desire to join the party. the room is full of heat, he notices he has been sweating this whole time and the song adds a latent burn to the air. when he stands, his legs are more unsteady than he knew. his veins and arteries are more than just blood now.

louis blinks against the blear of alcohol in his system, his lips open a tiny bit and he flicks his tongue over them. he can barely feel the sensation, even when he tests them with this teeth.

 _in my imagination you’re waiting lying on your side_ …

he is about to ask alexei to dance, like a good bribed date should, but in an instant everything changes and the déjà vu irrevocably snaps.

 _with your hands between your thighs_ …

the bodies on the dance floor are gently swaying, waiting for the momentum of the song to build. as they move gently against the slinking guitar riffs, a gap opens and louis’ eyes travel through it.

 _stop and wait a sec_ …

eyes as green as his drink meet his gaze.

 _oh when you look at me like that my darling_   _what did you expect?_

louis feels a choking gasp crawl up from his throat more than he actually hears it. he can’t hear anything over the song, his senses are filled with the buzzing of his own body and the sight of harry styles, drink in hand, looking back at louis while a boy with his back to louis murmurs something into harry’s ear. louis wonders if harry can hear the words being whispered to him or if his mind is full of louis louis louis.

 _i probably still adore you with your hands around my neck_ …

he tries to remember breathing, but that was only useful when the room wasn’t airless.

 _not shy of a spark_ …

louis starts to move toward the beacon of green eyes, his head swimming and his blood rushing furiously in his veins. he is slightly more drunk than he is nervous and he thinks his eyes must look so inhumanely wide, like a spooked animal.

 _frightened by the bite though it’s no harsher than the bark_ …

the crowd opens and he sees harry again, almost indistinguishable against the dark in his black skinny jeans (his legs are endless) and dark shirt (louis wonders if it’s the one he grazed the edges of his fingers against when they were centimeters away from harry’s delicate skin).

 _middle of adventure, such a perfect place to start_ …

harry turns his smudged lashes and impossibly pink cheeks toward louis and the way they catch the lights makes louis question the fragility of his knees.

harry is the first electric person louis has ever seen, the first whose body must be full of voltage, not blood. he glows like holiday lights and louis thinks he’s too sick of the dark not to keep walking straight toward this beautiful almost-stranger.

louis knows this part of the song well: the ominous layering of guitar and percussion which leads to the moment of infinite release.

harry’s eyes are rimmed in black tonight, slightly bloodshot and more wicked than louis has ever seen them. the sweet boy who touched the outside of louis’ favorite book curiously is gone and in his place is one looking to find his depths, to find how low he can possibly sink and how enchanting it can feel to fall.

louis takes one searching look of harry’s face, inventories the shadows under the boy’s eyelashes like great valleys and the swell of his lips like a mountain range and his dimples like fault lines engraved into the earth. he feels like a cartographer, mapping out the terrain of harry so the whole world can someday see how breathtaking he is.

before he can even name these discoveries, he hears the interlude of the song come to an end. his pulse starts speeding, his body overly eager to explore the places he has seen.

 _but I crumble completely when you cry_ …

he can feel harry’s breath on his bottom lip. his chin is tilted up in a breakable moment, just before the tension becomes too much and they must either come together or fall apart once and for all.

 _it seems like once again you’ve had to greet me with goodbye_ …

their lips crash together, already searching for solid ground within the other. harry’s lips are pillowy and hot and so eager, and louis works them over with his tongue in quick strokes. harry is delicious and drunk and louis tastes whiskey in between his teeth.

 _i’m always just about to go and spoil the surprise_ …

harry’s hands have always a subject of interest, but until they are wrapped in the hair at the nape of louis’ neck and cupped along one of his flushed cheeks, he never quite understood how badly he wanted them to traverse his entire body, to understand him from the outside in.

harry leans over him, sucking him deeper into his mouth and starts to push him backward by the shoulders. louis obeys blindly, stepping through puddles of spilled alcohol and over feet until his back aligns with the nearest wall, held there forcefully by harry’s frame. with relief he leans back and lets harry pull on his lips with his teeth until he is sure they will have cuts and bruises tomorrow.

the first time he experimentally rolls his hips against harry’s, the broken gasp that comes from the bottom of harry’s throat makes louis’ cock ache, makes him urgently weave his fingers through harry’s belt loops and pull his hips forward until they are moving in circles to the heavy beat of 505.

 _take my hands off of your eyes too soon_ …

louis swears it feels like flying but that might just be the whiskey-vodka-everything-else talking, but he doesn’t mind, he’s not thinking at all, just acting and reacting. he thanks the numbness of alcohol for making this all okay, for making his life one where he kisses strange boys at parties and doesn’t care about the dozens of eyes that could be staring at them right now, ripping away the sanctity of their moment. finally, it is their moment.

his hands find the bulge in harry’s skinny jeans and he palms it urgently, showing harry how needy he is.

"do you want to get out of here?"

harry’s voice is a dirty, slurred growl in his ear and he responds by looking up at harry, heavy-lidded and unfocused.

before he can answer, the song winds down and there are three heavy seconds between songs when louis realizes the outside world exists.

he peers over harry’s shoulder, sees a stone-faced alexei sipping a drink, looking at him wordlessly.

he isn’t sorry, he never cared about alexei or this party or trying to get ahead by sucking up to older men with glittering eyes and deep pockets.

the sight that breaks his heart is the red-faced boy next to alexei, talking quickly in his ear and looking undone at the seams.

underneath harry’s weight against the wall, louis had not even given niall a second thought, and now the night is crashing down around him as his alcohol-saturated brain tries to figure out what to do next.

niall gives him one look, his face lacking any sort of animation, and louis knows to stay far away.

behind him, the air has settled in the space previously filled by harry, and louis looks around to find where he disappeared.

the crowd has swallowed any traces of the beautiful boy, and louis wonders how he went from the dizzying height of kissing harry styles to the low of standing alone on the edge of a dance floor, forgotten and ashamed.

louis thinks maybe he spent too much time thinking about the whether the fall would hurt and not enough time realizing how quickly it could happen.


	6. Chapter 6

louis had recovered from his hangover days ago, had brushed the sour taste from his teeth and washed the sweat from his skin. he had cleaned the scent of the party from his clothes with only one tentative sniff to see if he could smell harry on them. as he had collapsed into bed that night he was sure it had been a dream, but now on a sunny weekend afternoon, he knows this isn’t possible because he’s heard the tones of niall’s voicemail too many times for his best friend to simply be missing his calls.

he understands: niall is upset. louis recalls the emotional flush of niall’s cheeks as louis and harry had jumped apart, caught in the act. niall’s skin had been painted in broad brushstrokes with an angry, splotchy tone louis had only seen a few times from his friend, and it terrified him to be the cause.

he had already thrown his dignity into the depths of niall’s message inbox, so he tried yet again to reach his friend.

“niall, it’s lou. again. just on the off chance that you are listening to my messages, i just wanted to say again that there isn’t anything i could say to undo what happened, but i can say i’m sorry i suck again and that i miss you, and everything is so much worse without you. i hope i didn’t mess up your big deal, i know how hard you’ve worked. and just…i wish none of this happened. just…please call me back, even if it’s just to scream at me or something. i love you.”

he feels shakier with each apology, like he is gradually becoming less flesh and blood and more air. it briefly fills the gaps inside of him before escaping his lips in sighs, leaving him feeling even emptier than before.

he knows there are only so many times he can rearrange his furniture or scrub out his cabinets or dust the top of his dressers before he is just hiding from the world (which seems to loom over him, trapping him in his apartment with weak knees and a silent tongue).

so this time, he is the one to make the call. he lies so badly, especially in comparison to niall, that he figures no one will buy it, but five minutes later he has another phony photo shoot with harry set up through the agency and a tiny point of light to focus on instead of the overwhelming darkness of being a disappointment.

when he’s on the train later, bundled up in his autumn scarf with his headphones nestled in his ears, he allows his cheek to press against the window and he thinks it is lovely to be in transit, to be stretched across the city in a state of blissful impermanence. he can pretend to be another stranger in the crowd, headed to anywhere, coming from anywhere. his head feels lighter as he watches everyone go about their daily business, and he seeks solace in his anonymity: just another boy lost between the buildings of a city too large to recognize his heartbeat.

when he arrives at the studio, harry is sitting in the hallway outside the door with his feet turned inward. his head is bobbing to an invisible music source playing a beat only he can hear. he only looks up when he sees louis’ feet stop in front of him, and the way his eyes rake up louis’ body makes louis shiver.

louis clears his throat and harry stretches to his full height, slowly dusts off his jeans.

the last time louis had let harry into the studio, he had been quivering. harry had seemed mythical then: a pair of green eyes set into the most angelic face louis had ever seen on a model. now, he seems real at least. after all, louis had felt the weight of his lips and the tug of his hands and it had all screamed how real harry could be.

“listen…” harry drawls out, breaking the prickling silence. “about that party…”

louis briefly ponders how harry constantly sounds like he is trailing off into another idea, another expanse of thought that only he can see stretching ahead, but he suddenly remembers to listen because what harry is saying is important.

“i wasn’t sure you’d call me again,” harry admitted.

louis thinks bashful suits harry, and he responds with what he hopes is a casual, “well, we weren’t finished the project, were we?”

“no, you’re right. uh, so yeah what i’m saying is that…”

louis squeezes his nails into his palms until he is sure they impress angry crescents. his breath catches in the base of his throat in an annoyingly hopeful way.

“…i hope the other night wasn’t too weird or whatever. i was pretty drunk and the arctic monkeys do something to me, i swear. it was stupid.”

louis watches harry’s eyes, wide and shiny in the shadows of the hallway.

“so i’m sorry. it won’t affect your project or anything. we can just pretend we never even saw each other at the party.”

he blinks painfully slowly between words.

“ok? louis?”

louis releases his fingers and feels the blood rush back into the tips. the marks from his nails are deeper than he expected.

louis stretches the edges of his lips into a tight smile.

“sounds good, let’s just forget it then.”

if harry can erase their dance floor episode so easily, then he will make himself, too. if there’s one thing louis isn’t, it’s the one who hangs on when there’s nothing substantial to grasp.

he tries to pretend there is no hurt edge in his voice when he tells harry to take off his coat and stand over by the window. and when harry smiles tentatively at him, louis lowers his eyes to the blank screen of his camera and refuses to be pulled in by the earnest expression resting on harry’s face.

when he takes the first picture, he tries to ignore how the afternoon light from behind harry radiates him. his curls turn into a halo; his shoulders throw wide patches of shade onto the floor in front of him. louis bites his tongue when the urge to tell harry how beautiful he looks tickles his throat. instead, the dull clicks of the camera do all the talking they need.

“hey, louis?”

louis hums a soft response, never setting down the camera.

“do you ever let anyone take a picture of you?”

sometimes when niall goofs off in louis’ apartment, he’ll set louis’ camera on automatic and snap a sloppy series of photos. louis usually manages to pull a funny face in a race against the flash, so they never really turn out. a few of his photographer friends in school had asked him to model, praising his high cheekbones and how his eyes could look sharp if he focused them just above the line of the lens. he had never much wanted to see the final projects, though, always deleting the email attachments or declining the invitations to see himself blown up on a canvas in some classroom.

“not really. i’m usually on this side of it.”

harry cocks his head.

“you’re wasting yourself, then. i happen to think you’d be very photogenic.”

louis tries not to blush, digs down inside to remember that two minutes ago, harry had basically told him to forget the connection he had built up in his mind.

“i’m not tall enough to model. i’ll stick to this, thanks.”

he can’t turn his chin up to look at harry, but he sees the boy’s feet creep into the edge of his vision and he wonders if harry’s moved closer on purpose or if he has always been mere feet away.

“but louis, it’s not all about height.”

is louis going crazy or has harry’s drawl changed to more of a murmur?

“you’re wasting that face on hiding behind a camera, louis,” harry says as he takes another step forward, his boot squeaking a tiny bit on the waxed floor.

louis sucks the inside of his cheek, a nervous habit. he can’t see harry’s endgame but the air between them is charged. he thinks maybe if harry would reach out to touch him, he would feel shock and a spark between them.

and just as harry is raising his arm up _(to touch my face? my arm?_ louis’ mind races), louis falters. maybe harry can dance with boys at parties and share private exhalations with them in empty studios before turning around and saying it was nothing, but louis can’t.

“i’m behind a camera because i’d rather get to know other people than myself. i thought i wanted to get to know you, but obviously you don’t feel the same, and that’s why you’re the model and i’m the one who’s searching for pieces of people in photographs. when they leave, i’m stuck with the proof and they get to go on their way and keep handing their pieces to everyone else. ok, harry?” by the end, his chest is heaving, and he tastes the poison way he spit out harry’s name with the tip of his tongue even after the silence has resumed between them.

it’s all too much, he thinks. his feelings are filling the studio to its high ceilings, bouncing between the bricks of the walls. his ears are full of a tinny echo and he wishes he could slip between the cracks of the floorboards and disappear.

“there was so much in you that charmed me that i felt i must tell you something about yourself. i thought how tragic it would be if you were wasted,” harry said softly.

 louis felt the words deeply, tugging at some recess of his brain like he’d whispered them before.

“it’s from…the book. _the picture of dorian gray_. the book you showed me?” harry offered.

and suddenly louis remembered harry thumbing through his worn copy of the oscar wilde book, back when things had been more clear and a beautiful boy in his studio sent his mind whirring with infinite possibilities that didn’t end in confused confrontation.

“i read it,” harry continued. “when I had bits of off time between shoots.”

louis can’t quite figure out what to say, so he sets his camera on its tripod and bites his lip.

“so yeah, ‘i thought how tragic it would be if you were wasted,’” he said. “that’s why i said that stuff about modeling, not because i was trying to tell you to do anything. god, i’m royally fucking everything up.”

the moment feels like balancing on a tightrope, and louis feels the pit of his stomach swoop. he hates heights; he fears the fall.

he finally parts his lips. “what about forgetting what happened?”

harry’s eyebrows knit together.

“i figured you were going to say that anyway so i cut to the chase. it was just a dance, it doesn’t have to mean any—“

“stop saying that,” louis cuts in, his voice rising. “it meant something to me. it did. i don’t care if that’s stupid, not anymore.”

more loaded silence ensues. louis tries not to notice how one of harry’s feet is crooked inward, scuffing at the floor nervously.

he tries again.

“harry, i—“

“louis. stop.”

“—but this is all so—“

“louis…”

“—maybe if i just—“

“louis…”

“—do you want to forget it or should we just—“

harry reaches up again, slowly this time, as if he’s afraid louis may spook again.

“the one charm of the past is that it is the past,” he intones. louis remembers this line from the book, and he waits for harry to elaborate, to make sense of the tangled mass their words are weaving.

“what i meant before, about the party, was that it doesn’t matter. it’s not that i don’t care or didn’t like it, but we’re here today and that’s what matters.”

louis nods, feeling the hope (foolishly) flare up in his chest again. he’s back on the tightrope, waiting to see what happens.

“so…”

harry’s near, so close louis can see the fan of his bottom eyelashes and the flecks in his eyes and louis thinks his knees might give out before he can kiss harry.

“just…come here.”

when their lips touch, louis shuts his eyes and feels how different this time is from the party; they stay together for a few seconds before pulling apart, finding each other’s eyes again.

harry’s hand still rests lightly on louis’ cheek, warm against his skin. louis feels hot all over, as if he’s burning from the inside out.

“i—“ is all louis has time to get out before harry is dipping in for another kiss, his head lowering to meet louis’ upturned chin. he sucks lightly on louis’ bottom lip, swipes the edge of his tongue over the inside gently.

when louis uses his teeth to show harry he can handle more, harry melts into him with his entire body, emitting a throaty groan.

louis pushes upward, rising onto the tip of his toes to add heat to the kiss, to return harry’s force. as harry’s tongue slides into his mouth he curls his hands into harry’s hair and tugs, satisfied by the broken noise harry makes in response. harry snakes his arms around louis’ waist in response, pulls him in so no space exists between them. louis hopes harry can feel the thrumming of his chest through his t-shirt, wants him to feel the way his jeans are tight as he moves against harry helplessly.

the first time an involuntary mewling noise escapes louis’ throat, harry reaches his hands under louis’s shirt, grips his hips with bruising fingertips as if he’ll die without the skin to skin contact.

louis wants harry to pick him up, carry him to the couch and throw him down, but he remembers through the hazy fog of _want want want_ that any photographer could walk into the studio at any time.

he manages to choke out, “let’s go to my place, your place, anywhere—“ while harry nips roughly up the side of his neck. he loses his train of thought as harry reaches his earlobe and gently sucks on it, leaning over to filthily whisper, “what if i can’t wait?”

louis pulls harry’s hands from his hips and whispers, “i’ll make it worth your while, promise.”

and with one final groan, harry steps back and fixes his hair.

as they are headed for the door, harry grab’s louis’ arm.  
“harry, i told you—“

“no, just come here.”

louis pauses, and harry closes the distance between them.

he presses his soft lips once more to louis’ bitten ones, with no urgency. louis feels a shudder run up through his spine, like all his bones have suddenly been aligned, and he brushes his fingers along harry’s jawline in response.

“do you have some fancy literary line for this one, styles?” he teases.

harry ducks his head, his second dimple making a reappearance.

“not this time, i can only fit so much profundity in my head at one time.”

louis laughs and in the split second his eyes are closed, he feels harry tear away.

“i’ll race you home!”

they charge out of the studio in a tangle of legs, blocking each other on the stairwell and tumbling out onto the sidewalk with grins pasted on their faces.

for once, louis doesn’t feel discarded in the lost and found of the city. rather, he feels as if he is standing exactly where he is supposed to be.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smut warning.
> 
> *may want to listen to alt-j "tessellate" or "fitzpleasure" while you read.

they don’t speak aloud on the train ride back to louis’ apartment. besides a few nudges of their knees and elbows and a few charged looks, they could be strangers sitting next to each other by chance.  
  
louis isn’t quite sure what to say so he settles for sneaking glances of harry as he stares out the window. it’s a little awkward, as relations always are with near strangers, but he enjoys soaking in the absolute feeling of potential that clouds the evening.  
  
the train makes an extended stop halfway between the studio and louis’ so harry pulls out his ipod and hands louis one of his headphones. after dropping it twice and earning a small laugh from harry, he smiles gratefully and pushes it into his ear.  
  
 _—bite chunks out of me_

 _you're a shark and i'm swimming—_  
  
he makes a mental note to ask harry what the track is as he closes his eyes and resists the urge to sway slightly to the sensuous beat.  
  
 _—toe to toe, back to back, let's go_

_my love it's very late—_  
  


louis can’t help but wonder if harry picked this song as a message to him or if it came on shuffle. he feels stupid when his cheeks feel hot from their proximity and how the song makes him want to wrap his fingers around harry’s hips as he had at the party and move against him endlessly.  
  
harry slides his thigh a few inches to the right so it’s pressed flat against louis’ with a force that suggests he’s being very intentional.

 _—'til morning comes, let's tessellate—  
  
_ louis decides the song choice couldn’t possibly be innocent and he thinks about how he wants to explore harry’s torso with his mouth, to find out if harry likes teeth against his neck or tongue on the insides of his thighs. he would be lying if he said he had not thought about what harry might be like in bed (or on the living room floor, or the kitchen counter, or against the wall in the hallway). he’d been overbearing at the party, leaning over louis and pinning him to the wall with his _so much_ body but louis thinks he senses something else in harry, in tiny flickers of wide-eyed glances and the way harry can be so soft and slow at times. the way harry follows his directions when louis’s photographing him makes louis want to see if he is compliant in bed; to see what gets him off. he wants to see harry’s features when they’re wrecked: the pink of his obscene mouth and the way his eyes squeeze shut when he’s about to lose control.

nerves don’t shoot down his spine until the train’s doors hiss open at their stop and he leads harry onto the platform. he realizes he is five minutes from unlocking the door to his apartment and finding out all the answers to the questions he’s been running over in his mind.

silence pervades their walk to his building, but it’s not uncomfortable. louis clears his throat once and asks harry if he has lived in chicago long (to which harry replies, “not long enough to make it feel like home”) but other than that, it’s all crunching sidewalk footfall and the sounds of the city seeping into their consciousness.  
  
“give me one second,” louis says as he turns the key into his lock. when he cracks open the door and sees his apartment littered with clothes and his bed that looks like a tornado must have recently touched down on it, he reconsiders. “er, more like five minutes. just make yourself comfortable.”  
  
harry laughs and slides down the wall so he’s resting his elbows on his knees with his face in his hands and louis wants to savor the sight but he shuts the door and races around shoving clothes into random drawers and making his bed for possibly the third time in his entire life.  
  
he sniffs the blankets, trying to remember the last time he did laundry. it’s always in moments like these that he sees how he slides through life with minimal effort at human things like fresh sheets. he grabs the fresh linen febreze from the closet and spritzes it over the bed, accidentally releasing the can in his haste and sending it flying across the room where it hits the wall with a loud thunk and rolls across the wood floors. as he’s scrabbling against the floor in an attempt to pounce on it and hoping harry didn’t hear, the door cracks open an inch and he hears, “everything alright in here? don’t hurt yourself on my account.”  
  
louis laughs (possibly theatrically loud) and stuffs the can of febreze into the crack of a nearby arm chair just as harry steps in. he’s obscured in the shadows of the door and louis can only see his wild curls and outline framed in light.  
  
“come in, yeah,” he says rather uselessly as harry is already moving around the apartment, examining his objects with apparent curiosity.  
  
he finds a stack of photographs on louis’ desk.  
  
“may i?” he asks and louis nods before realizing harry probably can’t see him in the failing evening light. it’s the time halfway between afternoon and night when blue soaks into the air and steals the yellows and reds of the daytime. louis always feels a slight chill during this time that has nothing to do with the heat, like he can’t quite warm himself up or shake the feelings that accompany the ending of another day.  
  
“go for it. i’ll be right back,” he says.  
  
clicking the bathroom door shut, then lunges for his medicine cabinet and grabs his deodorant. he swipes it on, discreetly smelling himself before realizing no one can see. he swipes a hand through his hair to infuse some life while he’s dragging a toothbrush through his mouth. as he stares intently at himself, testing various facial expressions and how his eyebrows move, he dribbles onto his shirt front and snaps out of his mirror haze. harry is standing probably twenty feet away and he’s in here drooling on his t-shirt.  
  
when he reemerges, harry is holding one of the prints of liam that he could have sworn he boxed back up last week and staring it with so much rapt that louis feels like he’s interrupting something.  
  
he isn’t sure if harry can hear him and he doesn’t want to startle him.  
  
“who’s this?” harry asks without turning his head, and louis steps closer to see even though he already knows. he can’t tell what was wrapped up in harry’s voice when he asked, but it sounded earnest.

“that’s liam.”

in the photograph, liam is looking above the line of the lens. louis had made an ugly face in a last ditch effort to loosen liam up, and had managed to snap the exact moment when the corners of liam’s lips began to pull upward. the certain light in liam’s eyes that only shined through when he was laughing had just peeked out in the photograph, and louis kept it around for that reason. with his recent string of commercial shoots, he never wants to lose the feeling of capturing ephemerality that would otherwise get lost in the shuffle of thousands of other daily moments of human existence. how many times had he promised himself he’d remember a certain feeling and carry it around with him only to find it had floated away as soon as he loosened his deliberate grip on it?  
  
“you must have really liked him,” harry says gently, still staring at the picture. louis isn’t quite sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this.  
  
“i liked the idea of him and he liked some things about me, you know how that is.”  
  
he doesn’t know if harry knows how that is (at least whether he’s loved the idea of someone, because louis knows many people must have fallen in love with the idea of harry over the years) but he needed something to fill their space.  
  
“yeah, i do,” harry says softly and moves his attention to the object of the left of the photograph: louis’ old polaroid land camera 100, a relic from the 1960s that louis uses in little bursts when his regular camera seems too somber for him.  
  
“does this work?” harry asks and lifts it off the desk, slinging the strap over his neck and holding it up as if to mock take a picture. “does it have film?”

“yes and yes,” louis answers. “at least time i checked, which might have been 1999.”  
  
harry laughs and asks if he can take a picture of louis.  
  
“yeah, sure. i’m not very good at taking instructions though,” louis says and harry’s eyes widen at this. louis realizes how it sounds and remembers his burning curiosity over harry’s bedroom style. he’s been so wrapped up in their conversation that he’s almost forgotten about how badly he wants to jump harry’s bones.  
  
“we’ll see about that, won’t we?” harry says and takes his polaroid right when louis’ eyebrows raise.  
  
through peals of laughter, harry waves the print around and waits for it to develop. “i’m keeping this. it’s going to be priceless.”

louis steals the picture from harry’s waving hand and peeks at it, hoping he at least looks appealing enough for harry to want to devour at some point in the near future. although the picture is still a bit hazy, he can make out his face, his mouth in a slight ‘o’ shape and his cheeks hollowed out. he feels harry over his shoulder before he sees him, his breath hot with an appreciative noise low in louis’ ear.  
  
“think you can do that again for me later?”  
  
louis has had enough waiting, he’s ready to see harry come undone at the seams as he knows he will soon.  
  
louis lets the print flutter to the floor and turns into harry. the movement catches the other by surprise, he must have thought he would be the one calling the shots tonight. louis likes feeling like he can surprise people, like he is more than he appears.  
  
“how about now?” louis asks faux sweetly and walks harry over to the bed, tapping his chest to tell him to lie down. harry’s already blinking slower than usual and breathing heavily. the collar of his shirt slips against the movement to show his tattoos peeking out. louis starts there, nips against the inked skin as he spreads out on top of harry and pins his hands above his head. he’s hyperaware of the space between them. with every inhale of harry’s, their entire fronts touch until he exhales hotly and they gain a few inches between them. the rhythm of harry’s rising and falling chest drives louis’ hip movement. he nearly groans at the friction between them, the heat of harry underneath him and the way he’s sure he can feel harry hard against him in his tight jeans, but he wants to see harry break before him; wants to hear harry moan and see him gasping underneath him before he lets the other boy undo him.  
  
when he finds harry’s mouth, he’s surprised by how eagerly harry licks up into it. louis sucks on harry’s ripe lips and drags his teeth across them. harry groans softly at this and louis tests his teeth on the skin beneath harry’s ear next, sucking and nibbling on it as harry tilts his head back as far as it will go and closes his heavenly eyes.  
  
“ah, you don’t need to be afraid of hurting me,” harry chokes out between heavy breaths and louis smiles against his skin, feeling warmth spread out in his lower abdomen at these words.  
  
“mmm, i was right,” he says and punctuates it with a bite to the side of harry’s neck (straining with veins and a smooth canvas for him to mark up in reds purples and blues, he thinks).  
  
“what…fuck…what about?”  
  
turning his head to connect their lips again, harder this time. he swirls circles on louis’ mouth with his tongue and sucks the answers out from between his lips before he can give them. louis can’t focus on anything except the heat between their mouths and between their hips.  
  
louis unbuttons harry’s jeans with one hand and pulls off harry’s shirt when he’s finished. he admires the shape and the straining muscles for a moment before he returns to harry’s ear and says what he’s been waiting to say all night.  
  
“harry?” louis practically hums and harry lets out an impatient noise in response. “are you going to be good boy for me tonight?”  
  
at these words, harry lets out less of a moan and more of a whimper. he nods quickly and reaches down to shove his jeans off. louis palms him through his tight boxers and enjoys how harry pushes his hips up to meet his hand eagerly. it might be easier to wreck harry than he originally anticipated. he’s good at this, he knows where to kiss and how to touch people so they’re begging him to finish them. he likes how he feels control in this sense of his life and he likes to feel harry _trying_ so very hard for him.  
  
“how good?” louis whispers as moves his tongue down to harry’s waistband for a series of hot, sloppy kisses along its edge.  
  
“i’ll do anything, i will,” harry says and louis smiles and pulls off the final piece of clothing keeping him from harry. he remembers what he looked like in the photograph with hollowed cheeks and big blue eyes and tries to imitate it. harry’s impossibly wide eyes never leave louis as he moves up and down, taking as much of harry into his mouth as he possibly can.  
  
he moves up to the head and laps at it with his tongue, meeting harry’s eyes through his lashes and practically purring, “you’re so big and you taste so good, harry. you’re so good.”  
  
just as he thought, harry melts under his words and becomes more fluid, more pleading and babbling with every passing second.  
  
he uses his hand to pump harry while he moves his face down, pressing a flurry of kisses to the creases between harry’s legs and his body. he trails his tongue down to harry’s thighs and starts to suck gently on the pale skin there. harry moans and spreads his legs more so louis has more space. he loves the look of the light red marks he’s leaving, he doesn’t want them to fade. he wants harry to remember exactly what it feels like to become desperate underneath louis, he wants harry to want him as badly as louis wants him. he wishes he could take a picture of harry at this exact moment so he could see him vulnerable and eager to please whenever he wishes.  
  
when he starts to use his teeth on harry’s thighs, harry buries a hand in louis’ hair and tugs against it. louis loves the burn that says he’s giving harry what he needs.  
  
by the time he works his way back up to harry’s cock, he’s so close to the edge that one deep throat will push him over. louis buries his nose in the skin of harry’s stomach as he feels the back of his throat flood with come.  
  
when he pulls off, harry tugs his hair up to his face and kisses him almost shyly, like he’s in disbelief he let himself come so undone so quickly. louis is pretty sure he sees a hint of vulnerability flash across harry’s flushed face.  
  
he blinks sleepily and louis isn’t quite sure what to say (“thanks for letting me wreck you just to prove i can” doesn’t seem appropriate for such an occasion) and so he just leans back and lets harry play with the band of his jeans gently as they soak in the silence.  
  
“so, thank you,” harry sighs and louis feels his stomach swoop when harry sits up and looks at him without the mask of sex. it’s just louis and harry in an empty room and they haven’t moved to turn on a light or straighten themselves up and something about the moment feels pure, at least to louis.  
  
“i think i know something you’d like,” harry continues, his voice lowering a bit and louis feels his stomach bottom out in anticipation. being around harry is absolutely intoxicating, it makes louis’ skin crawl and he has to restrain himself from reaching out to touch harry. any space feels like too much space right now.

harry eyes louis’ erection pressed obviously against his jeans and smirks like he’s about to make a promise.  
  
he leans over into louis’ ear and nips the shell softly before growling, “i think you want my tongue to open up you up, to feel my mouth on that pretty little ass of yours. hmm?”  
  
louis feels a tiny mewling noise swell up in his throat and he lets it out; he can almost picture harry’s obscene mouth against him, his pink tongue pushing inside of him and teasing the edges until louis is pushing back into him, begging him to fuck him.  
  
harry reaches down and rubs louis as he continues, “i bet you can get off without me touching you, that’s how bad you want it. isn’t it, louis?”  
  
louis whimpers again and feels harry peel back his jeans slowly. he lowers himself back into the bed and helps free his legs, tries not to be too eager as he spreads his legs for harry. harry pushes his shoulders into louis’ legs and hooks them over so he can lean down to kiss louis once on the mouth before he slides back down to where louis is lying exposed and trembling for him.  
  
“i knew it,” harry slightly mocks with another crooked smile before he moves down and louis loses sight of all but his mop of hair, pushed back off his forehead.  
  
his breath is cool immediately before his tongue is hot, it teases around the edge of louis’ opening and harry uses his fingers to expose louis more. he laps louis’ skin, also hot, almost so gently louis isn’t sure if he’s imagining harry ghosting over him or not. the first time he pushes inside, louis mewls louder.  
  
“look at you, look at how bad you want me inside you,” harry says with his lips pressed against louis’ opening. he pushes inside with his tongue again, and it’s no longer enough. louis knows that harry knows how much more he needs.  
  
“you can touch yourself now,” harry says and louis wraps his hand around himself and runs his thumb across the head of his cock as harry continues to suck gently on the skin around louis’ entrance and lap his tongue inside.  
  
he comes moments later, letting out one last high pitched whine at how wet harry’s mouth feels on him and settles back into silence with only his panting and harry crawling back up to meet him.

“that was…”  
  
harry smiles.  
  
“exactly,” he says as he turns his head to see if he really does hear his phone vibrating or if he’s imagining it. he pads over to where his jeans landed and checks the screen as louis sits against the wall and tries to collect himself.  
  
“fuck, i’ve got to go,” harry says quite suddenly, panic creeping into his voice and making it crack. “fuck, absolute fuck, where’s my other shoe?”  
  
he’s racing around collecting clothes and louis feels invisible as he tries to make sense of how the atmosphere could shift so quickly.

“shit,” harry continues to babble curse words as he grabs his coat and his bag. “i really shouldn’t have—“  
  
he never finishes the sentence but louis feels like the next words may have been something like _never should have come here tonight_.  
  
he tries not to look as confused as he feels, tries not to ask harry to stay because he’s sure his voice would tremble. they hadn’t agreed to anything but for the first time since liam, louis feels like he actually wants to wake up next to someone.  
  
“i’m sorry i have to run. fuck, i’m sorry,” harry looks worried and he finally runs out the door and leaves the echo of its slam in his wake.  
  
louis sits dead still for minutes after, trying to process what could have happened and wonders why he feels emptier than ever when just moments ago he had been so full.  
  
the first inklings of doubt that another person could ever possibly fill all the gaps and holes he has in himself start to cloud his vision.  
  
he feels so alone that he couldn’t possibly fall asleep, but even the ceiling cracks become boring to trace with his eyes after awhile, and he drifts off to the smell of harry on his pillow and tears pooled in the corners of his eyes.  
  
***  
  
he waits three days and his phone finally rings: it’s niall.  
  
he’s called with news about harry in a voice full of the weightiness of someone breaking information they’d rather not. it pulls louis down with it until he feels like he’s drowning in all the confusion surrounding the boy he might only love in idea.  
  
he goes back to sleep and pretends he never needs to know the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback in any form is really always really appreciated; i just like to make sure i'm doing my best because it does take quite a bit of time to keep writing during college and i want to make sure it's worth it! thanks for reading. x
> 
> *(you can reach me at the tumblr URL radicalfaced as well.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, guys. this is the final chapter. thank you for reading and commenting, i loved every minute of it. i'm sorry i was a slowpoke in updating, sometimes college kills me.
> 
> the chapter is not a ray of sunshine, so if you want a fairytale ending, write your own. x

louis turns the idea over in his mind until the edges have smoothed down a bit. originally the thought that harry was _so definitely not his_ felt like a shard of glass tearing holes in his thoughts, but after a few days of tossing it around, it feels more like green sea glass. he decides to tuck it into his palm and hold onto it for a few more days before he says anything to anyone.  
  
when niall had called to tell him, he’d scarcely been able to breathe.

“erm, you know that guy you’ve been seeing, harry? styles?” niall had started, making no mention of their fight. his voice was thinner than usual, cautious in a way that niall rarely could be. “i think he’s kind of…kept?”  
  
at first louis wants to bark a laugh. kept? what era does niall think it is? louis opens his mouth to tell niall to lay off the bbc period pieces but deflates as niall keeps prodding, keeps spilling out tiny needles meant to deflate louis in his laughter.

“i saw him out a few times with, y’know, higher-ups,” niall had said. “alexei marchov, and a couple others. nick grimshaw and that guy with the penthouse over on michigan avenue. more, people i couldn’t name but that i’ve seen around.”  
  
louis remembered zayn’s warning to look out for harry and wondered if he’d seen this too, harry out with older, deep-pocketed men being parading around like a pet, posing for photographs and (probably) dropping to his knees in posh bathrooms scattered around the city.  
  
he thinks maybe his grip on harry hadn’t been as solid as he had liked to imagine. maybe he had only ever had ghost fingers against the pale skin he had tried to claim.

_if i looked at my photographs now, would you even show up?_  
  
when harry calls, finally, offering more quiet apologies for leaving abruptly and asks louis when they can see each other again, louis feels strangely empty, as if the blood had gathered in his cheeks all at once at the thought of losing harry then drained, leaving him mostly just pale and soft.  
  
they face each other in the studio, louis with only his polaroid and harry with spindly knees and a cherry lollipop smile. a week ago louis would have longed to lick the edges, but now he isn’t sure if he’s allowed.

harry clears his throat, louis tucks his thumbs into his palms. the space between them feels like an ocean, and he’d almost rather drown then try to span it.  
  
“hi.”  
  
harry’s voice cracks, even on that single word and louis wants to scream. boys with green eyes and sandpaper voices shouldn’t be allowed on sunday mornings if louis isn’t allowed to worship them like he longs to, to lean over and kiss prayers into their parchment skin and find some sort of solace in the act.  
  
he realizes he’s forgotten to answer. maybe he’s forgotten how to speak, actually.  
  
“louis, are you ok? you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”  
  
and louis wants to say _that’s exactly it, i have seen a ghost, and kissed one and let it slip through my skin, and now maybe i’m a ghost, too._  
  
“do you come here for me, or for a photographer?”  
  
to his credit, harry looks genuinely confused.  
  
louis continues, determined not to waver out halfway through: “am i a pretty boy for you to kiss for headshots and a chance at a big break?”  
  
harry’s eyebrows knit together. “what would ever make you think that?”

louis sighs, and wishes he didn’t feel so petty bringing the subject to light. suddenly he’s embarrassed for both of them for being young and tumbling into something that might, in fact, never have meant anything real at all.  
  
“do you date people because they can help you get ahead? god, i don’t really know how to say this but i’ve seen—“  
  
harry looks seven the way he ducks his head and turns his toes inward. it’s difficult to watch, and louis thinks everything would be easier between them in the dark. the way the light filters through the windows leaves nothing to the imagination.  
  
“no.”  
  
(there is silence and two chests heaving).  
  
“louis, i’m not sure what you’ve seen but it isn’t supposed to be like that.”  
  
louis doesn’t know what to do with this statement; where to place any of the pieces harry is handing him. so he waits.  
  
“there are people who…fancy me, i guess, and so we have agreements,” harry is babbling and louis feels sorry for him that he has to explain his lifestyle to anyone.  
  
“you don’t have to tell me anything about them or that,” louis fills in. “you really don’t. i just want, need, to know if that’s what i am to you.”  
  
harry closes the gap, takes louis by the elbows, as if to prove they’re real and solid and standing in their place and _fine_.

“no, god, no, you’re nothing like that,” harry says, silently asking permission for more contact. louis blinks a _maybe_ , a _maybe yes_.  
  
harry’s mouth is pleading, and the way he sucks louis’ bottom lip begs him to see that they’re different, somehow. they have real heat in the caverns of their mouths and the flush of their cheeks, and harry’s hands burn against louis’ skin.  
  
he uses each of his teeth to hold onto louis and say _mine,_ even if only for a few seconds. His thumbs knead circles in louis’ skin and he wishes they had days to connect like this, to rub out the scars and marks caused by their entanglements with anyone else from the past.  
  
when they’ve cooled down (it takes hours for their heartbeats to slow after they’ve allowed themselves to really melt into one another for the first time) harry starts to talk. louis usually loses patience with slow things, but harry makes every word feel heavy and necessary so he doesn’t mind the syrupy pace.  
  
harry asks if louis knows what it’s like to want something so badly that he’ll do anything for it.  
  
louis isn’t sure if he has, but harry is.  
  
he began by allowing the men who called him pretty to choose him, to dress him up and show him off around town. he’d moved to the city alone when he was seventeen to try modeling after a childhood of pinning up cheekbones and wide eyes to his bedroom walls, and they all discovered something soft within his face that they’d wanted to mold and form.  
  
so he let them, mostly. he smiled when he should and he let them buy him dinner, drinks, eventually drugs. the first year had been too much for him, and louis’ heart breaks at the expression pasted on harry’s face when he explains how he’d felt so hollow at the end of a year that he’d nearly let go of it all.  
  
harry says that he’d mostly stopped, that he only spends time now with a few of the men he trusts.

“do you, like…” louis says.  
  
“no,” harry says. “i won’t say i haven’t, but there’s not sex. it’s more for the image, not for real favors, so much.”  
  
when harry asks the biggest question of all, whether he can stay, louis doesn’t yet have the words to answer.  
  
harry picks up his polaroid and takes one frame of louis wearing no particular facial expression before turning the camera on himself and taking one wide-eyed, curious shot as if he can look like the question he’s asking of louis but can’t form the words.  
  
louis wants to kiss the corners of harry’s mouth and promise him he’s an angel to him, but instead he stands up and brushes off his knees; gestures to harry to stand up and takes his hand.  
  
so, they’re doing this, and already louis feels less transparent with this boy by his side.  
  
***  
  
it’s full of cinnamon kisses and cold toes under sheets for a month, then two.  
  
louis continues to prepare his exhibit (he nearly forgot he’d lied to harry about it, but comes up with a backup plan he thinks will make harry smile) and harry lands a shoot in italy.  
  
when he’s gone, louis imagines harry will smell like the ocean when he returns and flits about, aiming to surprise harry with the exhibit for when he walks through the door.  
  
he takes three dozen polaroids and strings them with clothespins and fishing wire from the ceiling’s cracks. harry’s smile stretches from wall to wall, his blinking eyes flutter against the breeze of the open window and a few of louis are scattered throughout, not as collected but still proof that they’re real.

he spends more money than he should on printing out his favorite studio shots of harry and pinning them up against every available surface. the tension from their first shoot makes him squirm, the inky blotches of tattoos beg for his eyes like they had that first day. he sees harry smoking a cigarette (before they’d been honest with each other for the first time) and a recent sleepy shot of harry with messy hair and a sweet morning smile, saved just for them.  
  
the gallery isn’t professional or even that profound, really, because it will only mean something to harry and louis, but that’s enough, for now.  
  
***  
  
when harry comes through the door, he doesn’t smell like the ocean, but he’s wearing its color in fading bruises.  
  
he says he’s sorry for what he still has to do, that he’s sorry anyone else gets to touch his skin in only the way louis should. He says it’s always an accident, a night gone wrong from which he hopes to wake in his own bed. he asks louis to match the marks, to claim him again so he can settle in their city.

louis knows he’s sorry, that harry can’t simply start over right now without stepping on important toes and losing the life he’s built up from nothing.  
  
they step out to the fire escape and louis realizes he hasn’t surveyed the skyline for signs of insomnia in months. right, he’s not sure if he’ll ever sleep. he has highway veins, leading to nowhere and full of empty vehicles speeding through the night. he remembers the nights he’d plant himself against the cold metal and write stories about the inhabitants of high rises he could see to the west. he’d written them girlfriends and boyfriends; loving mothers and sweet children to kiss their cheeks before bedtime. he’d wanted to believe they were all happy and none of them were alone, but he’d also figured if they were awake at three a.m., there was a high chance they were as lonely as he’d once been.  
  
he loves harry, that’s the worst part. he loves him and he’s in love with him, and he can’t bear to run his fingers over bruises he didn’t make or hear harry sneaking back in at three a.m. and grimacing when he knocks into the bedside table. even though louis said he didn’t mind sharing and that harry could do whatever he needed to do to make his modeling dreams come true and stay afloat, he realizes it makes him so heavy he wants to anchor himself into his sheets for good.  
  
harry knows, and understands. they have limits; they’re only human. they love each other fiercely, but it’s not always enough to fight time and circumstance, and it’s stealing all their air to pretend they’re ok like this.  
  
so, they don’t quite say goodbye.  
  
louis says he’ll think of harry most when he leans over balconies, cigarette-less and grey to match the sky when he can’t quite fill in his own colors. harry says he’ll mostly remember the way louis looked behind a camera. when the flash gave harry stars in his eyes, he could always focus on louis’ form to bring him back to his senses.  
  
“you’re beautiful, harry,” louis says, his voice shaking more than he’d ever admit. “you didn’t make it as a model because you had to let some men parade you around. you made it because your essence shines right through your face. you’re so special, you’re going to be famous and everyone will love you as much as i do.”  
  
harry looks shattered and frail. louis wonders if he’s been eating enough but realizes that’s not really his role to worry anymore. he hopes no one climbs harry’s backbone like a staircase without treading lightly.

harry speaks one more time like honey, in the golden way he had in the beginning before climbing back in through the window, unhooking one polaroid of louis from its pin, tucking it into his pocket, and clicking the door shut behind him.

“i know we can’t now but someday, ok? we’ll find each other again in this city.”  
  
and just like he trusted harry before, he believes him once again. somewhere in the grid of the chicago, tied together by train tracks and winding fire escape stairs, he and harry will find each other on a night they both can’t sleep or a morning their faces are still pressed with creases from their sheets.  
  
he takes his time on the way to where he’s going these days, looks closely at every pair of eyes for one green set. every pair of knobbly knees he finds on the sidewalk could be his harry; each time he walks into a shoot, he knows it could be the day the universe sews their seams back together.

and so he waits while the year ends and the polaroids flutter on strings above him like whispering ghosts haunting him at night (proving that he was real once). as he’s drifting off to sleep, he likes to imagine them whispering that soon, somehow, he will feel real again.

_someday, ok? we’ll find each other again in this city._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honest comments, positive or negative are always greatly appreciated.
> 
> if you happend to like the style of this fic, my next project is a twelve-part paris artist/free love type fic featuring lourry and zerrie as a sort of eclectic family. it will be posted on this account, and progress updates will be over at my tumblr, radicalfaced. hope to see you there, peace out.


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